•ECONn COPY, 




APR 251899 

>6r 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 



Chap. Copyright Xo. 

Bhett_fi J? Y$ f 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA: 



COLLECTION OF POETRY 
FOR SCHOOL READING 



•*&&&' 



Collection of Poetry 



FOR 



SCHOOL READING 



SELECTED AND ARRANGED WITH NOTES 
BY 

MARCUS WHITE 

PRINCIPAL OF STATE NORMAL-TRAINING SCHOOL 
NEW BRITAIN, CONN. 



THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

LONDON : MACMILLAN & CO., Ltd. 
1899 

All rights reserved 
I 










Copyright, 1899, 
By THE MACMILLAN COMPANY. 



TWoeo^iF^ g i*c:!veQ. 



. 






A 



" 







Norton oS 13«ss 

J. S. CushiDg & Co. — Berwick & Smith 

Norwood Mass. U. S. A. 






INTRODUCTION 

This collection of poems for school reading has 
been planned for children from ten to fifteen years 
of age. The compiler has long felt the need in 
his own schools of a book of modest size and price 
that should include the poems here brought to- 
gether. They are for the most part old favorites, 
and they have proved themselves by actual test to 
be well fitted to give genuine pleasure to children, 
and, at the same time, to foster in them a growing 
appreciation of what is good in literature. The col- 
lection is by no means exhaustive, and is intended 
only to supplement the many admirable selections 
from English and American authors now prepared 
for school use. It is hoped, however, that this book 
may prove to be one which children will like to 
own for themselves, and that, instead of being read 
and then laid aside for something new, it may enjoy 
an intimate and enduring companionship with them. 
Too much of what is now read in schools is dis- 
missed with a single reading, for the very abun- 



vi PREFACE 

dance of the supply is a constant temptation to pass 
on to something new, and thus it may happen that 
while a love for reading may be fostered, that finer 
culture that comes from a loving and intimate asso- 
ciation with something beautiful in literature may 
be wholly wanting. 

The poems here presented, though admirably fitted 
for young people on account of their simplicity and 
generally objective character, are, for the most part, 
of high literary merit, and the friendship formed 
for them in youth will be likely to grow stronger 
with the advancing years. 

In a few cases omissions have been made in order 
to make the poems more suitable for the class room, 
and some notes have been prepared which, it is 
hoped, will be found adequate for all points of real 
difficulty. The brief biographical sketches accom- 
panying the poems are designed not so much for 
information as to awaken a desire to know more of 
the men and women who have "illumined, adorned, 
and exalted the world in which we live." 

Acknowledgments are hereby made to J. B. Lip- 
pincott & Co. for their kindness in allowing the 
editor to include "Sheridan's Ride" in this collec- 
tion. 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



Christmas Carol .... 
I remember, I remember 
Song of Marion's Men 

At Sea 

The Pilgrim Fathers . 

Warren's Address at the Battle of Bunker 

Hill ..... 
Landing of the Pilgrims 
John Gilpin .... 
The Solitude of Alexander Selkirk 
Loss of the Royal George . 
The Burial of Sir John Moore 
Young Lochinvar 
Allen-a-Dale .... 
Jock of Hazeldean 
The Bells of Shandon 
Elegy written in a Country Churchyard 
Abou Ben Adhem 
After Blenheim .... 
The Tiger 



Ye Mariners of England 
Battle of the Baltic . 
Hohenlinden 



Old Song 


I 


Hood 


2 


Bryant 


4 


Cunningham 


7 


Pierfiont 


8 


Pierpont 


io 


Hemans 


ii 


Cowper 


13 


Cowper 


24 


Cowper 


26 


Wolfe 


28 


Scott 


30 


Scott 


33 


Scott 


34 


Mahoney 


35 


Gray 


37 


Hunt 


43 


Southey 


44 


Blake 


47 


Ca7iipbcll 


48 


Ca?npbell 


5o 


Campbell 


53 



Vll 



Vlll 



CONTENTS 



The Soldier's Dream . 

The Red Thread of Honor . 

How sleep the Brave . 

Sheridan's Ride .... 

Ballad of Agincourt . 

The Raven .... 

The Bells 

Bugle Song 

The Brook .... 

Ring out, Wild Bells . 

The Charge of the Light Brigade 

The Revenge .... 

How they brought the Good News 

Hervd Riel 

The Pied Piper of Hamelin 
The Battle of Naseby . 

Horatius 

The Destruction of Sennacherib . 
Battle of Waterloo 
Apostrophe to the Ocean . 
The Chronicle of the Drum 
The Deserted Village . 



Campbell 


54 


Doyle 


56 


Collins 


60 


Read 


61 


Drayton 


63 


Poe 


68 


Poe 


76 


Tennyson 


81 


Tennyson 


82 


Tennyson 


84 


Tennyson 


86 


Tennyson 


88 


Browning 


96 


Browning 


99 


Browning 


106 


Macaulay 


117 


Macaulay 


120 


Lord Byron 


143 


Lord Byron 


145 


Lord Byron 


148 


Thackeray 


150 


Goldsmith 


167 



Notes 



177 



COLLECTION OF POEMS 

A CHRISTMAS CAROL 
OLD SONG 

As Joseph was a-walking, 

He heard an angel sing : — 
1 This night shall be the birth-time 

Of Christ, the heavenly King. 

' He neither shall be born 5 

In housen nor in hall, 
Nor in the place of paradise, 

But in an ox's stall. 

' He neither shall be clothed 

In purple nor in pall, 10 

But in the fair white linen 

That usen babies all. 

1 He neither shall be rocked 

In silver nor in gold, 
But in a wooden manger 15 

That resteth in the mould.' 



/ REMEMBER, I REMEMBER 

As Joseph was a-walking, 

There did an angel sing, 
And Mary's child at midnight 

Was born to be our King. 20 

Then be ye glad, good people, 

This night of all the year, 
And light ye up your candles, 

For his star it shineth clear. 



I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER 

Thomas Hood 

Thomas Hood (1 799-1 845), a Londoner by birth, is known chiefly 
as a writer of humorous verse, though such poems as the ' Song of the 
Shirt ' and the ' Bridge of Sighs ' show us the more serious side of his 
nature, He is also the author of some charming lyrics, the best known 
of which are ' Fair Ines ' and ' Time of Roses.' Throughout his life he 
fought bravely against poverty and ill health, and, as he said himself, 
1 gained a livelihood by being a lively Hood.' 

I remember, I remember 

The house where I was born, 
The little window where the sun 

Came peeping in at morn ; 
He never came a wink too soon, 5 

Nor brought too long a day, 
But now I often wish the night 

Had borne my breath away ! 



/ REMEMBER, I REMEMBER 3 

I remember, I remember 

The roses, red and white, 10 

The violets and the lily-cups, 

Those flowers made of light ! 
The lilacs where the robin built, 

And where my brother set 
The laburnum on his birthday, — 15 

The tree is living yet ! 

I remember, I remember 

Where I was used to swing, 
And thought the air must rush as fresh 

To swallows on the wing ; 20 

My spirit flew in feathers then, 

That is so heavy now, 
And summer pools could hardly cool 

The fever on my brow ! 

I remember, I remember 25 

The fir trees dark and high ; 
I used to think their slender tops 

Were close against the sky : 
It was a childish ignorance, 

But now 'tis little joy 30 

To know I'm farther off from heaven 

Than when I was a boy. 



4 SONG OF MARION'S MEN 

SONG OF MARION'S MEN 

William Cullen Bryant 

William Cullen Bryant (1797-1878), sometimes called 'The 
Father of American poetry,' was born at Cummington, Massachusetts. 
Quiet and studious as a boy, his poetical nature ripened early, and at 
nineteen he had written ' Thanatopsis.' The level there reached was 
maintained but seldom surpassed in his later works. For some years 
he practised law; but in 1825 he went to New York, where he soon 
became connected with the Evening Post, of which he afterward was 
editor and proprietor. For more than fifty years his name was asso- 
ciated with what is best in American journalism. His poetry shows 
a deep yet passionless love of nature, and is marked at all times by 
simplicity, seriousness, and dignity. Some of the most familiar of his 
poems are, ' To a Waterfowl,' ' The Fringed Gentian,' • The Song of 
Marion's Men,' and the ' Planting of the Apple Tree.' 

Our band is few but true and tried, 

Our leader frank and bold ; 
The British soldier trembles 

When Marion's name is told. 
Our fortress is the good greenwood, 5 

Our tent the cypress tree ; 
We know the forest round us, 

As seamen know the sea. 
We know its vales of thorny vines, 

Its glades of reedy grass, 10 

Its safe and silent islands 

Within the dark morass. 

Woe to the English soldiery, 
That little dream us near ! 



SONG OF MARION'S MEN 5 

On them shall light at midnight 15 

A strange and sudden fear : 
When, waking to their tents on fire, 

They grasp their arms in vain ; 
And they who stand to face us 

Are beat to earth again ; 20 

And they who fly in terror dream 

A mighty host behind, 
And hear the tramp of thousands 

Upon the hollow wind. 

Then sweet the hour that brings release 25 

From danger and from toil : 
We talk the battle over, 

And share the battle spoil. 
The woodland rings with laugh and shout, 

As if a hunt were up, 30 

And woodland flowers are gathered 

To crown the soldier's cup. 
With merry songs we mock the wind 

That in the pine-top grieves, 
And slumber long and sweetly 35 

On beds of oaken leaves. 

Well knows the fair and friendly moon 

The band that Marion leads — 
The glitter of their rifles, 

The scampering of their steed. 40 



SONG OF MARION'S MEN 

'Tis life to guide the fiery barb 

Across the moonlit plain ; 
Tis life to feel the night wind 

That lifts his tossing mane. 
A moment in the British camp, 45 

A moment — and away ! 
Back to the pathless forest 

Before the peep of day. 

Grave men there are by broad Santee, 

Grave men with hoary hairs ; 50 

Their hearts are all with Marion, 

For Marion are their prayers. 
And lovely ladies greet our band 

With kindliest welcoming, — 
With smiles like those of summer, 55 

And tears like those of spring. 
For them we wear these trusty arms, 

And lay them down no more 
Till we have driven the Briton, 

Forever, from our shore ! 60 



AT SEA J 

AT SEA 

Allan Cunningham 

Allan Cunningham (1784- 1842) was the son of a Scotch peas- 
ant of Dumfriesshire. He was apprenticed to a stone-mason, and on 
coming to London became connected with the famous sculptor Chan- 
trey, in whose employ he rose to the rank of foreman. He wrote 
1 Lives of Painters,' a ' History of Literature, Biographical and Criti- 
cal,' and even tried his hand at novels, but his best work is to be found 
in his songs, which entitle him, according to some critics, to a rank 
among Scottish song writers inferior only to that of his great country- 
man, Burns. 

A wet sheet and a flowing sea, 

A wind that follows fast, 
And fills the white and rustling sail, 

And bends the gallant mast : 
And bends the gallant mast, my boys, 5 

While, like the eagle free, 
Away the good ship flies, and leaves 

Old England on the lee. 

O for a soft and gentle wind ! 

I heard a fair one cry ; 10 

But give to me the snoring breeze 

And white waves heaving high ; 
And white waves heaving high, my lads, 

The good ship tight and free — 
The world of waters is our home, 15 

And merry men are we. 



8 THE PILGRIM FATHERS 

There's tempest in yon horned moon, 

And lightning in yon cloud : 
But hark the music, mariners ! 

The wind is piping loud : 20 

The wind is piping loud, my boys, 

The lightning flashes free — 
While the hollow oak our palace is, 

Our heritage the sea. 



THE PILGRIM FATHERS 

John Pierpont 

John Pierpont (1 785-1 866) was born in Litchfield, Connecticut. 
He was a clergyman prominent in many reform movements. He also 
wrote a considerable body of verse much read in his day but now 
practically unknown. The poem, ' The Pilgrim Fathers,' was read at 
Plymouth on the anniversary of the Pilgrim Society in 1824. 

The Pilgrim Fathers — where are they ? 

The waves that brought them o'er 
Still roll in the bay, and throw their spray, 

As they break along the shore ; 
Still roll in the bay, as they rolled that day, 5 

When the Mayflower moored below, 
When the sea around was black with storms, 

And white the shore with snow. 

The mists, that wrapped the Pilgrim's sleep, 
Still brood upon the tide ; 10 



THE PILGRIM FATHERS g 

And the rocks yet keep their watch by the deep, 

To stay its waves of pride. 
But the snow-white sail that he gave to the gale, 

When the heavens looked dark, is gone ; 
As an angel's wing, through an opening cloud, 15 

Is seen, and then withdrawn. 

The Pilgrim exile — sainted name ! — 

The hill, whose icy brow 
Rejoiced, when he came, in the morning's flame, 

In the morning's flame burns now. 20 

And the moon's cold light, as it lay that night 

On the hillside and the sea, 
Still lies where he laid his houseless head ; — 

But the Pilgrim — where is he ? 

The Pilgrim Fathers are at rest : 25 

When Summer's throned on high, 
And the world's warm breast is in verdure dressed, 

Go, stand on the hill where they lie. 
The earliest ray of the golden day 

On that hallowed spot is cast ; 30 

And the evening sun as he leaves the world, 

Looks kindly on that spot last. 

The Pilgrim spirit has not fled : 

It walks in noon's broad light ; 
And it watches the bed of the glorious dead, 35 

With the holy stars, by night. 



10 WARREN'S ADDRESS AT BUNKER HILL 

It watches the bed of the brave who have bled, 
And shall guard this ice-bound shore, 

Till the waves of the bay, where the Mayflower lay, 
Shall foam and freeze no more. 40 



WARREN'S ADDRESS AT THE BATTLE 
OF BUNKER HXLL° 

John Pierpont 

Stand ! the ground's your own, my braves ! 

Will ye give it up to slaves ? 

Will ye look for greener graves ? 

Hope ye mercy still ? 

What's the mercy despots feel ? 5 

Hear it in that battle-peal ! 

Read it on yon bristling steel ! 

Ask it, — ye who will. 

Fear ye foes who kill for hire ? 

Will ye to your homes retire ? 10 

Look behind you ! — they're afire ! 

And, before you, see 

Who have done it ! From the vale 

On they come ! — And will ye quail ? 

Leaden rain and iron hail 15 

Let their welcome be ! 

In the God of battles trust ! 

Die we may, — and die we must : 



LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS II 

But, oh, where can dust to dust 

Be consigned so well, 20 

As where heaven its dews shall shed 

On the martyred patriot's bed, 

And the rocks shall raise their head, 

Of his deeds to tell ? 



LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS 

Felicia Hemans 

Felicia Hemans (1793-1835) was a very popular poet during the 
early part of the present century, though she wrote little that will live 
as literature. ' Casabianca' is still a general favorite with young peo- 
ple, and the ' Landing of the Pilgrims ' is worthy a place in the present 
collection, both on account of the spirited character of the verse and 
the historical interest connected with it. 

The breaking waves dashed high 
On a stern and rock-bound coast, 

And the woods against a stormy sky 
Their giant branches tossed ; 

And the heavy night hung dark 5 

The hills and waters o'er, 
When a band of exiles moored their bark 

On the wild New England shore. 

Not as the conqueror comes, 

They, the true-hearted, came ; 10 



12 LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS 

Not with the roll of the stirring drums, 
And the trumpet that sings of fame : 

Not as the flying come, 

In silence and in fear : 
They shook the depths of the desert's gloom 15 

With their hymns of lofty cheer. 

Amidst the storm they sang ; 

And the stars heard, and the sea ; 
And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang 

To the Anthem of the Free. 20 

The ocean eagle soared 

From his nest by the white wave's foam ; 
And the rocking pines of the forest roared, — 

This was their welcome home ! 

There were men with hoary hair 25 

Amidst that pilgrim band : 
Why had they come to wither there, 

Away from their childhood's land ? 

There was woman's fearless eye, 

Lit by her deep love's truth : 30 

There was manhood's brow serenely high, 

And the fiery heart of youth. 

What sought they thus afar ? — 
Bright jewels of the mine ? 



JOHN GILPIN 13 

The wealth of seas, the spoils of war ? 35 

They sought a faith's pure shrine. 

Ay, call it holy ground, 

The soil where first they trod ! 
They have left unstained what there they found, 

Freedom to worship God. 40 



JOHN GILPIN 

William Cowper 

William Cowper (1 731-1800) occupies a distinguished position 
among the poets of the last century. He was educated for the law, 
but almost at the beginning of his career his mind gave way and he 
became insane. Though he recovered from the first attack he was 
subject to spells of deep melancholy, alternating with periods of mental 
calm and even cheerful humor. His best-known works are 'John 
Gilpin,' 'The Task,' 'The Castaway,' a collection of hymns known as 
the ' Olney Hymns,' written while the poet was in retirement at Olney, 
and his letters, which are probably the best in the annals of English 
literature. His last years were years of great wretchedness, and he 
died insane at the century's close. 

John Gilpin was a citizen 

Of credit and renown, 
A train-band Captain eke was he 

Of famous London town. 

John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear, 5 

1 Though wedded we have been 

These twice ten tedious years, yet we 
No holiday have seen. 



14 JOHN GILPIN 

I To-morrow is our wedding-day, 

And we will then repair 10 

Unto the Bell at Edmonton, 
All in a chaise and pair. 

' My sister and my sister's child, 

Myself and children three, 
Will fill the chaise ; so you must ride 15 

On horseback after we.' 

He soon replied, * I do admire 

Of womankind but one, 
And you are she, my dearest dear, 

Therefore it shall be done. 20 

I I am a linen-draper bold, 

As all the world doth know, 
And my good friend, the Calender 3 
Will lend his horse to go.' 

Quoth Mistress Gilpin, ' That's well said ; 25 

And for that wine is dear, 
We will be furnish'd with our own, 

Which is both bright and clear.' 



'O 



John Gilpin kiss'd his loving wife ; 

O'erjoy'd was he to find 30 

That though on pleasure she was bent 

She had a frugal mind. 



JOHN GILPIN 15 

The morning came, the chaise was brought, 

But yet was not allow'd 
To drive up to the door, lest all 35 

Should say that she was proud. 

So three doors off the chaise was stay'd, 

Where they did all get in, 
Six precious souls, and all agog 

To dash through thick and thin. 40 

Smack went the whip, round went the wheels, 

Were never folk so glad ; 
The stones did rattle underneath, 

As if Cheapside were mad. 

John Gilpin, at his horse's side, 45 

Seiz'd fast the flowing mane, 
And up he got, in haste to ride, 

But soon came down again, 

For saddletree scarce reach'd had he, 

His journey to begin, 50 

When, turning round his head, he saw 
Three customers come in. 

So down he came ; for loss of time, 

Although it grieved him sore, 
Yet loss of pence, full well he knew, 55 

Would trouble him much more. 



1 6 JOHN GILPIN 

'Twas long before the customers 

Were suited to their mind, 
When Betty, screaming, came downstairs, 

' The wine is left behind ! ' 60 

1 Good lack ! ' quoth he, ' yet bring it me, 

My leathern belt likewise, 
In which I bear my trusty sword 

When I do exercise.' 

Now Mistress Gilpin (careful soul !) 65 

Had two stone-bottles found, 
To hold the liquor that she loved, 

And keep it safe and sound. 

Each bottle had a curling ear, 

Through which the belt he drew, 70 

And hung a bottle on each side, 

To make his balance true. 

Then over all, that he might be 

Equipped from top to toe, 
His long red cloak, well brush'd and neat, 75 

He manfully did throw. 

Now see him mounted once again 

Upon his nimble steed, 
Full slowly pacing o'er the stones, 

With caution and good heed. 80 



JOHN GILPIN i J 

But finding soon a smoother road 

Beneath his well-shod feet, 
The snorting beast began to trot, 

Which gall'd him in his seat. 

So, ' Fair and softly ! ' John he cried, 85 

But John he cried in vain ; 
That trot became a gallop soon, 

In spite of curb and rein. 

So stooping down, as needs he must 

Who cannot sit upright, 90 

He grasp'd the mane with both his hands 

And eke with all his might. 

His horse, who never in that sort 

Had handled been before, 
What thing upon his back had got 95 

Did wonder more and more. 

Away went Gilpin neck or naught, 

Away went hat and wig ; 
He little dreamt, when he set out, 

Of running such a rig. 100 

The wind did blow, the cloak did fly, 

Like streamer long and gay, 
Till, loop and button failing both, 

At last it flew away. 



1 8 JOHN GILPIN 

Then might all people well discern 105 

The bottles he had slung ; 
A bottle swinging at each side 

As hath been said or sung. 

The dogs did bark, the children scream'd, 

Up flew the windows all, no 

And every soul cried out, * Well done ! ' 
As loud as he could bawl. 

Away went Gilpin — who but he ? 

His fame soon spread around, 
' He carries weight ! he rides a race ! 115 

'Tis for a thousand pound ! ' 

And still as fast as he drew near 

'Twas wonderful to view 
How in a trice the turnpike men 

Their gates wide open threw. 120 

And now, as he went bowing down 

His reeking head full low, 
The bottles twain behind his back 

Were shatter' d at a blow. 

Down ran the wine into the road, 125 

Most piteous to be seen, 
Which made his horse's flanks to smoke 

As they had basted been. 



JOHN GILPIN 19 

But still he seem'd to carry weight, 

With leathern girdle braced ; 130 

For all might see the bottle necks 

Still dangling at his waist. 

Thus all through merry Islington 

These gambols he did play, 
Until he came unto the Wash 135 

Of Edmonton so gay ; 

And there he threw the Wash about 

On both sides of the way, 
Just like unto a trundling mop, 

Or a wild goose at play. . 140 

At Edmonton his loving wife 

From the balcony spied 
Her tender husband, wondering much 

To see how he did ride. 

' Stop, stop, John Gilpin ! — Here's the house ' — 
They all aloud did cry ; 146 

' The dinner waits, and we are tired ; ' 
Said Gilpin, ' So am I ! ' 

But yet his horse was not a whit 

Inclin'd to tarry there; 150 

For why ? his owner had a house 

Full ten miles off, at Ware. 



20 JOHN GILPIN 

So like an arrow swift he flew, 

Shot by an archer strong ; 
So did he fly — which brings me to 155 

The middle of my song. 

Away went Gilpin, out of breath, 

And sore against his will, 
Till, at his friend the Calender's, 

His horse at last stood still. 160 

The Calender, amazed to see 

His neighbor in such trim, 
Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate 

And thus accosted him : 

* 
'What news ? what news ? your tidings tell ; 165 

Tell me you must and shall — 
Say, why bareheaded you are come, 

Or why you come at all ? ' 

Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit, 

And loved a timely joke ; 170 

And thus unto the Calender, 

In merry guise, he spoke : 

' I came because your horse would come ; 

And, if I well forebode, 
My hat and wig will soon be here, 175 

They are upon the road.' 



JOHN GILPIN 21 

The Calender, right glad to find 

His friend in merry pin,° 
Return'd him not a single word, 

But to the house went in ; 180 

Whence straight he came, with hat and wig, 

A wig that flowed behind ; 
A hat not much the worse for wear, 

Each comely in its kind. 

He held them up, and in his turn 185 

Thus show'd his ready wit, 
1 My head is twice as big as yours, 

They therefore needs must fit, 

1 But let me scrape the dirt away, 

That hangs upon your face ; 190 

And stop and eat, for well you may 

Be in a hungry case.' 

Said John — ' It is my wedding-day, 

And all the world would stare, 
If wife should dine at Edmonton 195 

And I should dine at Ware.' 

So, turning to his horse, he said, 

1 1 am in haste to dine, 
'Twas for your pleasure you came here, 

You shall go back for mine.' 200 



22 JOHN GILPIN 

Ah, luckless speech, and bootless boast ! 

For which he paid full dear, 
For while he spoke a braying ass 

Did sing most loud and clear. 

Whereat his horse did snort as he 205 

Had heard a lion roar, 
And gallop'd off with all his might, 

As he had done before. 

Away went Gilpin, and away 

Went Gilpin's hat and wig ; 210 

He lost them sooner than at first, 

For why ? they were too big. 

Now Mistress Gilpin, when she saw 

Her husband posting down 
Into the country far away, 215 

She pull'd out half a crown ; 

And thus unto the youth she said, 

That drove them to the Bell, 
1 This shall be yours, when you bring back 

My husband safe and well.' 220 

The youth did ride, and soon did meet 

John coming back amain ; 
Whom in a trice he tried to stop, 

By catching at his rein ; 



JOHN GILPIN 23 

But not performing what he meant, 225 

And gladly would have done, 
The frighted steed he frighted more, 

And made him faster run. 

Away went Gilpin, and away 

Went postboy at his heels, 230 

The postboy's horse right glad to miss 

The rumbling of the wheels. 

Six gentlemen upon the road 

Thus seeing Gilpin fly, 
With postboy scampering in the rear, 235 

They rais'd a hue and cry : 

•' Stop thief ! — stop thief ! — a highwayman ! ' 

Not one of them was mute ; 
And all and each that passed that way 

Did join in the pursuit. 240 

And now the turnpike gates again 

Flew open in short space : 
The toll-men thinking, as before, 

That Gilpin rode a race. 

And so he did, and won it too, 245 

For he got first to town ; 
Nor stopp'd till where he had got up 

He did again get down. 



24 THE SOLITUDE OF ALEXANDER SELKIRK 

Now let us sing, long live the king, 

And Gilpin, long live he ; 250 

And, when he next doth ride abroad, 
May I be there to see. 



THE SOLITUDE OF ALEXANDER 
SELKIRK 

William Cowper 

I am monarch of all I survey, 

My right there is none to dispute ; 

From the centre all round to the sea, 
I am lord of the fowl and the brute. 

Solitude ! where are the charms 5 
That sages have seen in thy face ? 

Better dwell in the midst of alarms 
Than reign in this horrible place. 

1 am out of humanity's reach, 

I must finish my journey alone, 10 

Never hear the sweet music of speech, — - 

I start at the sound of my own. 
The beasts that roam over the plain, 

My form with indifference see ; 
They are so unacquainted with man, 15 

Their tameness is shocking to me. 



THE SOLITUDE OF ALEXANDER SELKIRK 25 

Society, Friendship, and Love, 

Divinely bestow'd upon man, 
Oh, had I the wings of a dove, 

How soon would I taste you again ! 20 

My sorrows I then might assuage 

In the ways of religion and truth, 
Might learn from the wisdom of age, 

And be cheer'd by the sallies of youth. 

Ye winds that have made me your sport, 25 

Convey to this desolate shore 
Some cordial, endearing report 

Of a land I shall visit no more ! 
My friends, do they now and then send 

A wish or a thought after me ? 30 

Oh, tell me I yet have a friend, 

Though a friend I am never to see. 

How fleet is a glance of the mind ! 

Compared with the speed of its flight, 
The tempest itself lags behind, 35 

And the swift-winged arrows of light. 
When I think of my own native land, 

In a moment I seem to be there ; 
But alas ! recollection at hand 

Soon hurries me back to despair. 40 

But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest, 
The beast is laid down in his lair ; 



26 LOSS OF THE 'ROYAL GEORGE' 

Even here is a season of rest, 

And I to my cabin repair. 
There's mercy in every place, 45 

And mercy, encouraging thought ! 
Gives even affliction a grace, 

And reconciles man to his lot. 



LOSS OF THE 'ROYAL GEORGE' 

William Cowper 

Toll for the brave ! 

The brave that are no more ! 
All sunk beneath the wave 

Fast by their native shore ! 

Eight hundred of the brave 5 

Whose courage well was tried, 

Had made the vessel heel 
And laid her on her side. 

A land-breeze shook the shrouds 

And she was overset : 10 

Down went the Royal George, 
With all her crew complete. 

Toll for the brave ! 

Brave Kempenf elt is gone : 



LOSS OF THE 'ROYAL GEORGE' 27 

His last sea-fight is fought, 15 

His work of glory done. 

It was not in the battle : 

No tempest gave the shock : 
She sprang no fatal leak, 

She ran upon no rock. 20 

His sword was in its sheath. 

His fingers held the pen, 
When Kempenfelt went down, 

With twice four hundred men. 

Weigh the vessel up 25 

Once dreaded by our foes ! 
And mingle with our cup 

The tears that England owes. 

Her timbers yet are sound, 

And she may float again 30 

Full charged with England's thunder, 

And plough the distant main : 

But Kempenfelt is gone, 

His victories are o'er : 
And he and his eight hundred 35 

Shall plough the wave no more. 



28 THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE 

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE AT 

CORUNNA 

Charles Wolfe 

Charles Wolfe (1 791-1823), an Irish clergyman, was born in 
Dublin. His fame rests upon a single poem, but this poem is known 
wherever the English language is spoken. It was first published in an 
Irish newspaper without the author's signature. It was extensively 
copied and many different people claimed the authorship of it. Of 
this poem Byron said to Shelley, ' I will show you one you have never 
seen that I consider little if at all inferior to the best the present pro- 
lific age has brought forth.' 

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, 
As his corse to the rampart we hurried ; 

Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot 
O'er the grave where our hero we buried. 

We buried him darkly at dead of night, 5 

The sods with our bayonets turning ; 

By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, 
And the lantern dimly burning. 

No useless coffin enclosed his breast, 

Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him ; 10 
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, 

With his martial cloak around him. 

Few and short were the prayers we said, 
And we spoke not a word of sorrow ; 



THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE 29 

But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, 15 
And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 

We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed 
And smoothed down his lonely pillow, 

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his 
head, 
And we far away on the billow ! 20 

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, 
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him, — 

But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on 
In the grave where a Briton has laid him. 

But half of our heavy task was done 25 

When the clock struck the hour for retiring ; 

And we heard the distant and random gun 
That the foe was sullenly firing. 

Slowly and sadly we laid him down, 

From the field of his fame fresh and gory ; 30 
We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone — 

But we left him alone with his glory ! 



30 YOUNG LOCHINVAR 

YOUNG LOCHINVAR 

Sir Walter Scott 

Sir Walter Scott (1771-1832) was born in the 'Old Town' of 
Edinburgh. As a child he was sickly, and he was sent to live with his 
grandfather in the country. Sandy Knowe, his grandfather's home, 
was in a district ' in which every field has its battle and every rivulet 
its song.' Here it was that Scott began to gather that wonderful 
knowledge of Border history and the legends and ballads of his native 
land, which he drew upon so extensively in his poems and novels. 
Educated for the law his natural bent was too strong within him, 
and though he filled the office of sheriff for many years he early drifted 
into literature. His first important original work was the ' Lay of the 
Last Minstrel.' This was followed by ' Marmion ' and the ' Lady of 
the Lake.' Had Scott written nothing but his poems he would still 
occupy a distinguished place in literature, but great as he was as a 
poet, he was far greater as a novelist. His first novel • Waverley ' ap- 
peared anonymously, but it took the world by storm. Unfortunately 
Scott had become connected with a publishing house in Edinburgh, 
and the failure of this house involved him in ruin, and the latter part 
of his life was spent in a heroic struggle to pay debts that he had him- 
self never incurred. He literally gave his life to the work, for he 
broke down under the terrific strain he imposed upon himself, but not 
till he had given to the world that wonderful collection of stories known 
as the ' Waverley Novels.' In invention, imagination, and breadth 
Scott ranks but little below the very greatest among the world's writers, 
and thousands of people yearly honor his memory by pilgrimages to 
his home at Abbotsford, and to the scenes immortalized in his novels 
and poems. 

O, young Lochinvar is come out of the West ! 
Through all the wide Border his steed was the best ; 
And save his good broadsword, he weapons had none ; 
He rode all unarm'd, and he rode all alone, 



YOUNG LOCHINVAR 3 1 

So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, 5 

There never was knight like the young Lochinvar. 

He stay'd not for brake and he stopp'd not for stone; 

He swam the Eske River where ford there was none ; 

But ere he alighted at Netherby gate, 

The bride had consented, the gallant came late ; 10 

For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, 

Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar. 

So boldly he enter' d the Netherby Hall, 

Among bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and 

all; — 
Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword 15 
(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word), 
' O, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, 
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar ? ' 

' I long woo'd your daughter, my suit you denied ; — 
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide; — 
And now am I come with this lost Love of mine 21 
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. 
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far, 
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar ! ' 

The bride kiss'd the goblet : the knight took it up, 25 
He quaff'd off the wine, and he threw down the cup. 
She look'd down to blush, and she look'd up to sigh, 
With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye. 



32 YOUNG LOCHINVAR 

He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar, — 
' Now tread we a measure! ' said young Lochinvar. 30 

So stately his form, and so lovely her face, 
That never a hall such a galliard did grace ; 
While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, 
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and 

plume ; 
And the bride-maidens whispered, ' 'Twere better by 
far, 35 

To have match'd our fair cousin with young Loch- 
invar ! ' 

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, 
When they reach'd the hall door, and the charger 

stood near; 
So light to the croup the fair lady he swung, 
So light to the saddle before her he sprung ! 40 

' She is won ! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur ; ° 
They'll have fleet steeds that follow,' quoth young 

Lochinvar. 

There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby 

clan ; 
Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and 

they ran ; 
There was racing and chasing, on Cannobie lea, 45 
But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see. 
So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, 
Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar ? 



ALLEN- A-D ALE 33 

ALLEN-A-DALE 

Sir Walter Scott 

Allen-a-Dale has no fagot for burning, 
Allen-a-Dale has no furrow for turning, 
Allen-a-Dale has no fleece for the spinning, 
Yet Allen-a-Dale has red gold for the winning. 
Come, read me my riddle ! come, hearken my tale ! 5 
And tell me the craft of bold Allen-a-Dale. 

The Baron of Ravensworth prances in pride, 
And he views his domains upon Arkindale side, 
The mere for his net, and the land for his game, 
The chase for the wild, and the park for the tame ; 10 
Yet the fish of the lake, and the deer of the vale, 
Are less free to Lord Dacre than Allen-a-Dale ! 

Allen-a-Dale was ne'er belted a knight, 

Though his spur be as sharp, and his blade be as 

bright : 
Allen-a-Dale is no baron or lord, 15 

Yet twenty tall yeomen will draw at his word ; 
And the best of our nobles his bonnet will veil, 
Who at Rere-cross on Stanmore meets Allen-a-Dale. 

Allen-a-Dale to his wooing is come ; 
The mother, she ask'd of his household and home : 20 
1 Though the castle of Richmond stand fair on the hill, 
My hall,' quoth bold Allen, ' shows gallanter still ; 

D 



34 JOCK OF HAZELDEAN 

'Tis the blue vault of heaven, with its crescent so pale, 
And with all its bright spangles ! ' said Allen-a-Dale. 

The father was steel, and the mother was stone ; 25 
They lifted the latch, and they bade him be gone ; 
But loud, on the morrow, their wail and their cry : 
He had laugh'd on the lass with his bonny black eye. 
And she fled to the forest to hear a love-tale, 
And the youth it was told by was Allen-a-Dale ! 30 



JOCK OF HAZELDEAN 
Sir Walter Scott 

1 Why weep ye by the tide, ladie ? 

Why weep ye by the tide ? 
I'll wed ye to my youngest son, 

And ye sail be his bride : 
And ye sail be his bride, ladie, 5 

Sae comely to be seen' — 
But aye she loot the tears down fa' 

For Jock of Hazeldean. 

1 Now let this wilfu' grief be done, 

And dry that cheek so pale ; 10 

Young Frank is chief of Errington, 

And lord of Langley-dale; 
His step is first in peaceful ha', 

His sword in battle keen ' — 
But aye she loot the tears down fa' 15 

For Jock of Hazeldean. 



THE BELLS OF SHANDON 35 

A chain of gold ye sail not lack, 

Nor braid to bind your hair ; 
Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk, 

Nor palfrey fresh and fair ; 20 

And you the foremost o' them a', 

Shall ride our forest queen ' — 
But aye she loot the tears down fa' 

For Jock of Hazeldean. 

The kirk was deck'd at morning-tide, 25 

The tapers glimmer'd fair ; 
The priest and bridegroom wait the bride, 

And dame and knight are there. 
They sought her baith by bower and ha' ; 

The ladie was not seen ! 30 

She's o'er the Border, and awa' 

Wi' Jock of Hazeldean. 



THE BELLS OF SHANDON 

Francis Sylvester Mahoney 

Francis Sylvester Mahoney (1 805-1 866) was born in Cork, 
Ireland. He was ordained as a priest, but gave up his calling and 
became one of the staff of Eraser's Magazine. He was a brilliant 
writer, witty and sarcastic. His works were collected in a volume en- 
titled ' Reliques of Father Prout.' In the last years of his life he retired 
to a monastery. 

With deep affection and recollection 
I often think of those Shandon bells, 



36 THE BELLS OF SHANDON 

Whose songs so wild would, in the days of child- 
hood, 
Fling round my cradle their magic spells. 
On this I ponder where'er I wander, 5 

And thus grow fonder, sweet Cork, of thee ; 
With thy bells of Shandon, 
That sound so grand on 
The pleasant waters of the river Lee. 

I've heard bells chiming full many a clime in, 10 

Tolling sublime in cathedral shrine, 
While at a glib rate brass tongues would vibrate — - 

But all their music spoke naught like thine ; 
For memory dwelling on each proud swelling 

Of the belfry knelling its bold notes free, 15 

Made the bells of Shandon 
Sound far more grand on 
The pleasant waters of the river Lee. 

I've heard bells tolling old l Adrian's Mole ,0 in, 

Their thunder rolling from the Vatican, 20 

And cymbals glorious swinging uproarious 

In the gorgeous turrets of Notre Dame ; ° 
But thy sounds were sweeter than the dome of Peter ° 
Flings o'er the Tiber, pealing solemnly ; — 

Oh ! the bells of Shandon 23 

Sound far more grand on 
The pleasant waters of the river Lee, 



GRAY'S ELEGY 37 

There's a bell in Moscow, while on tower and 
kiosk O ! 
In Saint Sophia the Turkman gets, 
And loud in air calls men to prayer 30 

From the tapering summits of tall minarets. 
Such empty phantom I freely grant them ; 
But there is an anthem more dear to me, — 
'Tis the bells of Shandon, 
That sound so grand on 35 

The pleasant waters of the river Lee. 



ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY 
CHURCHYARD 

Thomas Gray 

Thomas Gray (1716-1771) was born in London. He was one of 
the most learned men of his day. He wrote but few poems, but those 
he did write were exquisitely finished. It is said he was seven years 
writing and polishing the ' Elegy.' This poem is one of the best known 
and best beloved poems in the English language. Gray also wrote an 
' Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College,' ' The Progress of Poesy,' 
and the 'Bard.' He died in 1771 and is buried at Stoke Pogis in the 
churchyard which he has immortalized in the ' Elegy.' 

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, 
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, 

The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, 
And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 



38 GXAV'S ELEGY 

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, 5 
And all the air a solemn stillness holds, 

Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, 
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds. 

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r 

The moping owl does to the moon complain 10 

Of such as, wand'ring near her secret bow'r, 
Molest her ancient solitary reign. 

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, 
Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap, 

Each in his narrow cell forever laid, 15 

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, 

The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed, 

The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, 

No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 20 

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, 
Or busy housewife ply her evening care : 

No children run to lisp their sire's return, 
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. 

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, 25 

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke ; 

How jocund did they drive their team afield ! 

How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke ! 



GRAY'S ELEGY 39 

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, 

Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ; 30 

Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile 
The short and simple annals of the poor. 

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, 
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, 

Await alike the inevitable hour : 35 

The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, 
If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, 

Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault 
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 40 

Can storied urn, or animated bust, 

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath ? 

Can Honor's voice provoke the silent dust, 

Or Flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of death ? 

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 45 

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire ; 

Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed, 
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre: 

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page 

Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll ; 50 

Chill Penury repressed their noble rage, 
And froze the genial current of the soul. 



40 GRAY'S ELEGY 

Full many a gem of purest ray serene 

The dark, unf athomed caves of ocean bear : 

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 55 

And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 

Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast, 
The little tyrant of his fields withstood, 

Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest; 

Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood. 60 

The applause of listening senates to command, 
The threats of pain and ruin to despise, 

To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, 
And read their history in a nation's eyes, 

Their lot forbade : nor circumscribed alone 65 

Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined ; 

Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, 
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind, 

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, 
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, 70 

Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride 
With incense, kindled at the Muse's flame. 

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, 
Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray ; 

Along the cool sequester'd vale of life 75 

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. 



GRAY'S ELEGY 41 

Yet e'en those bones from insult to protect 
Some frail memorial still erected nigh, 

With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, 
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 80 

Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd Muse, 

The place of fame and elegy supply : 
And many a holy text around she strews 

That teach the rustic moralist to die. 

For who to dumb forgetfulness a prey, 85 

This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd, 

Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, 
Nor cast one longing, ling'ring look behind ? 

On some fond breast the parting soul relies, 

Some pious drops the closing eye requires ; 90 

E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, 
E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. 

For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonor'd dead, 
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate ; 

If chance, by lonely Contemplation led, 95 

Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, 

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, 
1 Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn 

Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, 

To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. 100 



42 GRAF'S ELEGY 

1 There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, 
That wreathes its old, fantastic roots so high, 

His listless length at noontide would he stretch, 
And pore upon the brook that babbles by. 

1 Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, 105 

Muttering his wayward fancies, he would rove ; 

Now drooping, woful-wan, like one forlorn, 

Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. 

1 One morn I missed him on the 'customed hill, 

Along the heath, and near his favorite tree ; no 

Another came ; nor yet beside the rill, 

Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he ; 

1 The next, with dirges due, in sad array, 

Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne. 

Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay 115 
Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.' 

THE EPITAPH 

Here rests his head upon the lap of earth, 
A youth to fortune and to fame unknown ; 

Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth, 

And Melancholy marked him for her own. 120 

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, 
Heaven did a recompense as largely send ; 

He gave to misery (all he had) a tear, 

He gained from Heaven ('twas all he wished) a friend. 



ABOU BEN ADHEM AND THE ANGEL 43 

No farther seek his merits to disclose, 125 

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode 

(There they alike in trembling hope repose), 
The bosom of his Father and his God. 



ABOU BEN ADHEM AND THE ANGEL 

Leigh Hunt 

Leigh Hunt (1 784-1859) was a celebrated editor, critic, and poet 
of the early part of the present century. He numbered among his inti- 
mate friends Byron, Moore, Shelley, and Keats. Although not a great 
poet himself, he was passionately fond of literature, and throughout a 
long life devoted himself faithfully to it. He wrote much, but his 
fame will rest upon two or three short poems. 

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase ! ) 
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, 
And saw, within the moonlight in his room, 
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom, 
An Angel writing in a book of gold. 5 

Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold, 
And to the Presence in the room he said, 
' What writest thou ? ' The Vision raised its head, 
And with a look made of all sweet accord 9 

Answered, ' The names of those who love the Lord.' 

1 And is mine one ? ' said Abou. ' Nay, not so,' 
Replied the Angel. Abou spoke more low, 



44 AFTER BLENHEIM 

But cheerly still, and said, ' I pray thee, then, 
Write me as one that loves his fellow-men.' 

The Angel wrote and vanished. The next night 15 

It came again with a great wakening light, 

And showed the names whom love of God had 

blessed, 
And, lo ! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest. 



AFTER BLENHEIM 

Robert Southey 

Robert Southey (1 774-1843), who was associated with Wordsworth 
and Coleridge as one of the so-called ' Lake Poets,' was an extremely 
voluminous writer of both verse and prose, though his writings are now 
but little read. He was a man of upright and lovable character and as 
a writer not altogether deserving of the neglect bestowed upon him to- 
day. In 1 81 3 he was made poet laureate. His best work is probably 
to be found in ' Kehama,' 'The Life of Nelson,' and a few of his 
shorter poems like the ' Holly Tree ' and ' My days among the dead are 
past.' 

It was a summer evening : 
Old Kaspar's work was done, 

And he before his cottage door 
Was sitting in the sun, 

And by him sported on the green 5 

His little grandchild Wilhelmine. 

She saw her brother Peterkin 
Roll something large and round, 



AFTER BLENHEIM 45 

Which he beside the rivulet, 

In playing there, had found ; 10 

He came to ask what he had found 
That was so large and smooth and round. 

Old Kaspar took it from the boy, 

Who stood expectant by ; 
And then the old man shook his head, 15 

And with a natural sigh, 
* 'Tis some poor fellow's skull,' said he, 
'Who fell in the great victory. 

' I find them in the garden, 

For there's many here about ; 20 

And often when I go to plough 

The ploughshare turns them out. 
For many thousand men,' said he, 
1 Were slain in that great victory.' 

' Now tell us what 'twas all about,' 25 

Young Peterkin he cries ; 
And little Wilhelmine looks up, 

With wonder-waiting eyes ; 
1 Now tell us all about the war, 
And what they fought each other for.' 30 

' It was the English,' Kaspar cried, 

' Who put the French to rout ; 
But what they fought each other for, 

I could not well make out. 



46 AFTER BLENHEIM 

But everybody said,' quoth he, 35 

' That 'twas a famous victory. 

' My father lived at Blenheim then, 

Yon little stream hard by ; 
They burned his dwelling to the ground, 

And he was forced to fly ; 40 

So with his wife and child he fled, 
Nor had he where to rest his head. 

'With fire and sword the country round 

Was wasted far and wide ; 
And many a childing mother then 45 

And newborn baby died ; 
But things like that, you know, must be 
At every famous victory. 

' They say it was a shocking sight 

After the field was won ; 50 

For many thousand bodies here 
Lay rotting in the sun ; 

But things like that, you know, must be 

After a famous victory. 

1 Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won 55 
And our good Prince Eugene.' 

1 Why, 'twas a very wicked thing ! ' 
Said little Wilhelmine. 

1 Nay — nay — my little girl,' quoth he, 

1 It was a famous victory ! 60 



THE TIGER 47 

1 And everybody praised the Duke 

Who this great fight did win.' 
* But what good came of it at last ? ' 

Quoth little Peterkin. — 
1 Why, that I cannot tell,' said he ; 65 

' But 'twas a famous victory.' 



THE TIGER 

William Blake 

William Blake (1 757-1827), painter, engraver, and poet, was 
born in London about the middle of the eighteenth century. Though 
probably insane, and writing much that is mystical and unintelligible, 
he has given the world in ' Poetical Sketches ' and ' Songs of Innocence ' 
some of the sweetest and tenderest poems in the language. One must 
go back to Shakespeare to find more spontaneous and exquisite songs 
than ' My silks and fine array,' ' How sweet I roam from field to 
field,' ' Memory, hither come,' ' Mad Song,' ' The Tiger,' and ' Little 
lamb, who made thee ? ' 

Tiger, Tiger, burning bright, 
In the forests of the night, 
What immortal hand or eye 
Framed thy fearful symmetry ? 

In what distant deeps or skies 5 

Burned that fire within thine eyes ? 
On what wings dared he aspire ? 
What the hand dared seize the fire ? 

And what shoulder and what art 

Could twist the sinews of thy heart ? 10 



48 YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND 

When thy heart began to beat, 

What dread hand formed thy dread feet ? 

What the hammer, what the chain, 
Knit thy strength, and forged thy brain ? 
What the anvil ? What dread grasp 15 

Dared thy deadly terrors clasp ? 

When the stars threw down their spears, 

And watered heaven with their tears, 

Did He smile His work to see ? 

Did He who made the lamb make thee ? 20 



YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND 
A NAVAL ODE 

Thomas Campbell 

Thomas Campbell (1 777-1 844) was born in Glasgow and was 
educated at the university in that city. He published the ' Pleasures of 
Hope ' when only twenty-one. This was the beginning of a successful 
literary career, though the poem would be called dull to-day. Those 
of his poems most likely to live are the stirring lyrics included in this 
volume. Mention should also be made of ' Lochiel,' ' O'Connor's 
Child,' and < Lord Ullin's Daughter.' 

Ye mariners of England ! 

That guard our native seas, 

Whose flag has braved a thousand years, 

The battle and the breeze ! 



YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND 49 

Your glorious standard launch again 5 

To meet another foe ! 

And sweep through the deep, 

While the stormy tempests blow ; 

While the battle rages loud and long, 

And the stormy tempests blow. 10 

The spirits of your fathers 

Shall start from every wave ! — 

For the deck it was their field of fame, 

And Ocean was their grave : 

Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell, 15 

Your manly hearts shall glow, 

As ye sweep through the deep, 

While the stormy tempests blow ; 

While the battle rages loud and long, 

And the stormy tempests blow. 20 

Britannia needs no bulwark, 

No towers along the steep ; 

Her march is o'er the mountain-waves, 

Her home is on the deep. 

With thunders from her native oak 25 

She quells the floods below, — 

As they roar on the shore, 

When the stormy tempests blow ; 

When the battle rages loud and long, 

And the stormy tempests blow. 30 



50 BATTLE OF THE BALTIC 

The meteor flag of England 

Shall yet terrific burn ; 

Till danger's troubled night depart, 

And the star of peace return. 

Then, then, ye ocean warriors ! 35 

Our song and feast shall flow 

To the fame of your name, 

When the storm has ceased to blow ; 

When the fiery fight is heard no more, 

And the storm has ceased to blow. 40 



BATTLE OF THE BALTIC 

Thomas Campbell 

Of Nelson and the North, 

Sing the glorious day's renown, 

When to battle fierce came forth 

All the might of Denmark's crown, 

And her arms along the deep proudly shone ; 5 

By each gun the lighted brand, 

In a bold determined hand, 

And the Prince of all the land 

Led them on. — 

Like leviathans afloat, 10 

Lay their bulwarks on the brine ; 
While the sign of battle flew 
On the lofty British line : 



BATTLE OF THE BALTIC 51 

It was ten of April morn by the chime : 

As they drifted on their path, 15 

There was silence deep as death ; 

And the boldest held his breath 

For a time. — 

But the might of England flush'd 

To anticipate the scene ; 20 

And her van the fleeter rush'd 

O'er the deadly space between. 

' Hearts of oak ! ' our captains cried, when each gun 

From its adamantine lips 

Spread a death-shade round the ships, 25 

Like the hurricane eclipse 

Of the sun. 

Again ! again ! again ! 

And the havoc did not slack, 

Till a feeble cheer the Dane 30 

To our cheering sent us back ; — 

Their shots along the deep slowly boom : — 

Then ceased — and all is wail, 

As they strike the shatter' d sail ; 

Or, in conflagration pale, 35 

Light the gloom. 

Outspoke the victor then 

As he hail'd them o'er the wave : 

1 Ye are brothers ! ye are men ! 

And we conquer but to save : — 40 



52 BATTLE OF THE BALTIC 

So peace instead of death let us bring. 

But yield, proud foe, thy fleet 

With the crews, at England's feet, 

And make submission meet 

To our King.' 45 

Then Denmark bless'd our chief, 

That he gave her wounds repose : 

And the sounds of joy and grief 

From her people wildly rose, 

As death withdrew his shades from the day. 50 

While the sun look'd smiling bright 

O'er a wide and woful sight, 

Where the fires of funeral light 

Died away. 

Now joy, old England, raise! 55 

For the tidings of thy might, 

By the festal cities' blaze, 

Whilst the wine-cup shines in light : 

And yet amidst that joy and uproar, 

Let us think of them that sleep, 60 

Full many a fathom deep, 

By thy wild and stormy steep, 

Elsinore ! 

Brave hearts ! to Britain's pride 

Once so faithful and so true, 65 



HOHENLINDEM 53 

On the deck of fame that died : 

With the gallant good Riou : ° 

Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave ! 

While the billow mournful rolls, 

And the mermaid's song condoles, ;o 

Singing glory to the souls 

Of the brave ! 

HOHENLINDEN 

Thomas Campbell 

On Linden, when the sun was low, 
All bloodless lay th' untrodden snow ; 
And dark as winter was the flow 
Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 

But Linden saw another sight, 5 

When the drum beat, at dead of night, 
Commanding fires of death to light 
The darkness of her scenery. 

By torch and trumpet fast array' d 
Each horseman drew his battle-blade, 10 

And furious every charger neigh'd 
To join the dreadful revelry. 

Then shook the hills with thunder riven ; 
Then rush'd the steed to battle driven ; 
And louder than the bolts of Heaven, 15 

Far flash'd the red artillery. 



54 THE SOLDIER'S DREAM 

But redder yet that light shall glow 
On Linden's hills of stained snow ; 
And bloodier yet the torrent flow 

Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 20 

Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun 
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, 
Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun, 
Shout in their sulph'rous canopy. 

The combat deepens. On, ye brave, 25 

Who rush to glory, or the grave ! 
Wave, Munich ! all thy banners wave, 
And charge with all thy chivalry ! 

Few, few shall part, where many meet ! 
The snow shall be their winding-sheet, 30 

And every turf beneath their feet 
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. 



THE SOLDIER'S DREAM 

Thomas Campbell 

Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had 
lower' d, 

And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky ; 
And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower'd, 

The weary to sleep and the wounded to die. 



THE SOLDIER'S DREAM 55 

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw, 5 
By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain, 

At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw ; 
And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again. 

Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array, 
Far, far, I had roam'd on a desolate track : 10 

'Twas autumn, and sunshine arose on the way 

To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me 
back. 

I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft 

In life's morning march, when my bosom was 
young ; 
I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, 15 

And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers 
sung. 

Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore, 
From my home and my weeping friends never to 
part; 

My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er, 19 

And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart. 

' Stay — stay with us ! — rest ! — thou art weary and 
worn ! ' 

And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay ; 
But sorrow return' d with the dawning of morn, 

And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away. 



56 THE RED THREAD OF HONOR 

THE RED THREAD OF HONOR 

Sir Francis Hastings Doyle 

Sir Francis Hastings Doyle (1810-1881) was born at Nun- 
apple, Yorkshire, and was educated at Eton and Oxford. He was 
called to the bar in 1831. He is known chiefly as the author of the 
' Loss of the Birkenhead,' the ' Private of the Buffs,' and the ' Red 
Thread of Honor,' one of the noblest battle poems in the language. 
He was appointed Professor of Poetry at Oxford in 1867, and occu- 
pied the chair ten years. 

Eleven men of England 

A breastwork charged in vain ; 
Eleven men of England 

Lie stripped, and gashed, and slain. 
Slain ; but of foes that guarded 5 

Their rock-built fortress well, 
Some twenty had been mastered, 

When the last soldier fell. 

The robber-chief mused deeply 

Above those daring dead ; 10 

' Bring here,' at length he shouted, 

1 Bring quick the battle thread. 
Let Eblis ° blast forever 

Their souls, if Allah will : 
But We must keep unbroken 15 

The old rules of the Hill. 

' Before the Ghiznee ° tiger 
Leapt forth to burn and slay ; 



THE RED THREAD OF HONOR 57 

Before the holy Prophet ° 

Taught our grim tribes to pray ; 20 

Before Secunder's ° lances 

Pierced through each Indian glen ; 
The mountain laws of honor 

Were framed for fearless men. 

* Still, when a chief dies bravely, 25 

We bind with green one wrist — 
Green for the brave, for heroes 

One crimson thread we twist. 
Say ye, O gallant Hillmen, 

For these, whose life has fled, 30 

Which is the fitting color, 

The green one or the red ? ' 

* Our brethren, laid in honored graves, may wear 
Their green reward,' each noble savage said ; 

1 To these, whom hawks and hungry wolves shall tear, 
Who dares deny the red ? ' 36 

Thus conquering hate, and steadfast to the right, 
Fresh from the heart that haughty verdict came ; 

Beneath a waning moon, each spectral height 

Rolled back its loud acclaim. 40 

Once more the chief gazed keenly 

Down on those daring dead ; 
From his good sword their heart's blood 

Crept to that crimson thread. 



58 THE RED THREAD OF HONOR 

Once more he cried, ' The judgment, 45 

Good friends, is wise and true, 
But though the red be given, 

Have we not more to do ? 

' These were not stirred by anger, 

Nor yet by lust made bold ; 50 

Renown they thought above them, 

Nor did they look for gold. 
To them their leader's signal 

Was as the voice of God ; 
Unmoved and uncomplaining, 55 

The path it showed they trod. 

' As, without sound or struggle, 

The stars unhurrying march, 
Where Allah's finger guides them, 

Through yonder purple arch, 60 

These Franks, sublimely silent, 

Without a quickened breath, 
Went in the strength of duty 

Straight to their goal of death. 

' If I were now to ask you 65 

To name our bravest man 
Ye all at once would answer, 

They call him Mehrab Khan. 
He sleeps among his fathers, 

Dear to our native land, 70 



THE RED THREAD OF HONOR 59 

With the bright mark he bled for 
Firm round his faithful hand. 



1 The songs they sing of Rustum 

Fill all the past with light ; 
If truth be in their music, 75 

He was a noble knight. 
But were those heroes living 

And strong for battle still, 
Would Mehrab Khan or Rustum 

Have climbed like these, the hill ? ' 80 

And they replied, ' Though Mehrab Khan was brave, 
As chief, he chose himself what risks to run ; 

Prince Rustum lied, his forfeit life to save, 
Which these had never done.' 

1 Enough,' he shouted fiercely ; 85 

' Doomed though they be to hell, 
Bind fast the crimson trophy 

Round both wrists — bind it well. 
Who knows but that great Allah 

May grudge such matchless men, 90 

With none so decked in heaven 

To the fiends' flaming den ? ' 

Then all those gallant robbers 
Shouted a stern ' Amen ! ' 



60 HOW SLEEP THE BRAVE 

They raised the slaughtered sergeant, 95 

They raised his mangled ten. 
And when we found their bodies 

Left bleaching in the wind, 
Around both wrists in glory 

That crimson thread was twined. 100 



HOW SLEEP THE BRAVE 

William Collins 

William Collins (1 721-1759) is known chiefly for his 'Odes,' 
and these, though never of wide popularity, have won the unqualified 
praise of all genuine lovers of the best poetry. His untimely death 
associates him with Byron, Keats, and Shelley, each of whom died in 
early manhood. 

How sleep the Brave who sink to rest 

By all their Country's wishes blest ! 

When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, 

Returns to deck their hallowed mould, 

She there shall dress a sweeter sod 5 

Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. 

By fairy hands their knell is rung, 

By forms unseen their dirge is sung : 

There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray, 

To bless the turf that wraps their clay, 10 

And Freedom shall awhile repair 

To dwell a weeping hermit there ! 



SHERIDAN'S RIDE 6l 

SHERIDAN'S RIDE 

Thomas Buchanan Read 

Thomas Buchanan Read (1822-1872) was born in Pennsylvania. 
Though a painter by profession, he was a frequent writer of both prose 
and verse. The Civil War inspired a large number of poems of varying 
worth, but few better or more popular than Read's stirring lines on 
Sheridan's famous ride. 

Up from the South at break of day, 

Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay, 

The affrighted air with a shudder bore, 

Like a herald in haste to the chieftain's door, 

The terrible grumble, and rumble, and roar, 5 

Telling the battle was on once more, 

And Sheridan twenty miles away. 

And wider still those billows of war 

Thundered along the horizon's bar, 

And louder yet into Winchester rolled 10 

The roar of that red sea uncontrolled, 

Making the blood of the listener cold 

As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray, 

And Sheridan twenty miles away. 

But there is a road from Winchester town, 15 

A good, broad highway leading down ; 

And there, through the flush of the morning light, 

A steed, as black as the steeds of night, 

Was seen to pass as with eagle flight. 



62 SHERIDAN'S RIDE 

As if he knew the terrible need, 20 

He stretched away with his utmost speed ; 
Hill rose and fell ; but his heart was gay, 
With Sheridan fifteen miles away. 

Still sprung from those swift hoofs, thundering south, 
The dust, like the smoke from the cannon's mouth, 25 
Or the trail of a comet, sweeping faster and faster, 
Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster ; 
The heart of the steed and the heart of the master 
Were beating like prisoners assaulting their walls, 
Impatient to be where the battle-field calls ; 30 

Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play, 
With Sheridan only ten miles away. 

Under his spurning feet, the road, 

Like an arrowy Alpine river, flowed, 

And the landscape sped away behind, 35 

Like an ocean flying before the wind ; 

And the steed, with his wild eyes full of fire, 

Swept on to the goal of his heart's desire : 

He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray, 

With Sheridan only five miles away. 40 

The first that the general saw were the groups 

Of stragglers, and then the retreating troops. 

What was done — what to do — a glance told him both ; 

Then striking his spurs, with a muttered oath, 

He dashed down the line 'mid a storm of huzzas. 45 

The sight of the master compelled them to pause. 



BALLAD OF AGINCOURT 63 

With foam and with dust the black charger was gray ; 
By the flash of his eye, and his red nostrils' play, 
He seemed to the whole great army to say, 
* I have brought you Sheridan all the way 50 

From Winchester down to save the day ! ' 

Hurrah, hurrah, for Sheridan ! 

Hurrah, hurrah, for horse and man ! 

And when their statues are placed on high, 

Under the dome of the Union sky, 55 

The American soldiers' Temple of Fame, 

There, with the glorious general's name, 

Be it said, in letters bold and bright, 

' Here is the steed that saved the day 
By carrying Sheridan into the fight, 60 

From Winchester — twenty miles away ! ' 



BALLAD OF AGINCOURT ° 

Michael Drayton 

Michael Drayton (1563-1631) was born in London, and his 
name is intimately associated with those of many of the great poets 
and dramatists of the Elizabethan age. He wrote a large body of 
verse little read now except by students of literature. The ' Polyol- 
bion,' ' a description of all the Tracts, Rivers, Mountains, Forests, and 
all other parts of Great Britain,' is his largest and most important 
work, though the very fine ' Ballad of Agincourt ' is far better poetry 
and a much greater favorite with lovers of literature. 

Fair stood the wind for France, 
When we our sails advance, 



64 BALLAD OF AGINCOURT 

Nor now to prove our chance 

Longer will tarry ; 
But putting to the main, 5 

At Caux, the mouth of Seine, 
With all his martial train, 

Landed King Harry. 

And, taking many a fort, 

Furnished in warlike sort, 10 

Marcheth tow'rds Agincourt 

In happy hour 
(Skirmishing day by day, 
With those oppose his way), 
Where the French general lay 15 

With all his power. 

Which in his height of pride, 
King Henry to deride, 
His ransom to provide 

To the king sending ; 20 

Which he neglects the while, 
As from a nation vile, 
Yet with an angry smile 

Their fall portending, 

And, turning to his men, 25 

Quoth our brave Henry then : 
Though they to one be ten, 
Be not amazed ! 



BALLAD OF AGINCOURT 65 

Yet have we well begun ; 

Battles so bravely won, 30 

Have ever to the sun 

By fame been raised. 

And for myself (quoth he), — 

This my full rest shall be, 

England ne'er mourn for me, 35 

Nor more esteem me ; — 
Victor I will remain, 
Or on this earth lie slain : 
Never shall she sustain 

Loss to redeem me. 40 

Poitiers and Cressy tell, 

When most their pride did swell, 

Under our swords they fell ; 

No less our skill is 
Than when our grandsire great, 45 

Claiming the regal seat, 
By many a warlike feat 

Lopp'd the French lilies. 

The Duke of York so dread 
The eager vanward led, 50 

With the main Henry sped, 
Amongst his henchmen. 
Exeter had the rear, 
A braver man not there ; 



66 BALLAD OF AGINCOURT 

Heavens ! how hot they were 55 

On the false Frenchmen ! 

They now to fight are gone : 
Armor on armor shone, 
Drum now to drum did groan ; 

To hear was wonder; 60 

That with the cries they make 
The very earth did shake ; 
Trumpet to trumpet spake ; 

Thunder to thunder. 

Well it thine age became, 65 

O noble Erpingham, 
Which did the signal aim 

To our hid forces ; 
When from a meadow by, 
Like a storm suddenly, 70 

The English archery 

Struck the French horses. 

With Spanish yew so strong, 

Arrows a cloth-yard long, 

That like to serpents stung, 75 

Piercing the weather ; ° 
None from his fellow starts, 
But playing manly parts, 
And like true English hearts, 

Stuck close together. 80 



BALLAD OF AGINCOURT 67 

When down their bows they threw, 
And forth their bilbows ° drew, 
And on the French they flew, 

Not one was tardy ; 
Arms were from shoulders sent ; 85 

Scalps to the teeth were rent, 
Down the French peasants went ; 

Our men were hardy. 

This while our noble King, 

His broadsword brandishing, 90 

Down the French host did ding, 

As to o'erwhelm it ; 
And many a deep wound lent 
His arms with blood besprent ; 
And many a cruel dent 95 

Bruised his helmet. 

Gloucester, that duke so good, 
Next of the royal blood, 
For famous England stood, 

With his brave brother, 100 

Clarence, in steel so bright, 
Though but a maiden knight, 
Yet in that furious fight, 

Scarce such another. 

Warwick in blood did wade, 105 

Oxford the foe invade, 




68 THE RAVEN 

And cruel slaughter made, 

Still as they ran up ; 
Suffolk his axe did ply, 
Beaumont and Willoughby no 

Bare them right doughtily — 

Ferrers and Fanhope. 

Upon Saint Crispin's day 

Fought was this noble fray, 

Which fame did not delay 115 

To England to carry. 
O when shall Englishmen 
With such acts fill a pen, 
Or England breed again 

Such a King Harry ! 120 



THE RAVEN 

Edgar Allan Poe 

Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849) was born in Boston. His father 
and mother, who were both actors, died when he was but two years 
old, and he was adopted by a Richmond merchant named Allan. He 
was given every opportunity in the line of education and social posi- 
tion, but in spite of the kindness of his benefactor he grew up to be a 
morbid and dissipated man. Concerning his position as a writer there 
has been much dispute, but as time goes by he seems likely to rank 
among the greatest of America's men of letters. His poetry is the 
product of a rare though weird imagination, and its melodiousness is 
unsurpassed. Among his best poems are 'Israfel,' 'To Helen,' 
'Ulalume,' and 'The Haunted Palace,' though 'The Raven,' 'The 



THE RAVEN 69 

Bells,' and 'Annabel Lee ' are best known to the general reader. Poe 
is also famous for his short stories, several of which are masterpieces of 
originality and power. Among them may be mentioned 'The Gold 
Bug,' * The Murder in the Rue Morgue,' * The Purloined Letter,' ' The 
Fall of the House of Usher,' and ' The Cask of Amontillado.' 



Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, 
weak and weary, 

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten 
lore — 

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there 
came a tapping, 

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my cham- 
ber door. 

1 Tis some visitor,' I muttered, ' tapping at my 
chamber door — 5 

Only this, and nothing more.' 

Ah ! distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak 

December, 
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost 

upon the floor. 
Eagerly I wished the morrow ; — vainly I had tried 

to borrow, 
From my books, surcease of sorrow — sorrow for the 

lost Lenore — * 10 

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels 

named Lenore — 

Nameless here for evermore. 



70 THE RAVEN 

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple 
curtain 

Thrilled me — filled me with fantastic terrors never 
felt before ; 

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood 
repeating 15 

' 'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my cham- 
ber door — 

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber 
door ; — 

This it is, and nothing more.' 

Presently my soul grew stronger ; hesitating then no 

longer, 
' Sir,' said I, ' or madame, truly your forgiveness I 

implore ; 20 

But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you 

came rapping, 
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my 

chamber door, 
That I scarce was sure I heard you' — here I opened 

wide the door ; — 

Darkness there, and nothing more. 

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, 
wondering, fearing, 25 

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to 
dream before ; 



THE RAVEN 71 

But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave 

no token, 
And the only word there spoken was the whispered 

word, ' Lenore ! ' 
This /whispered, and an echo murmured back the 

word, ' Lenore ! ' 

Merely this, and nothing more. 30 

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within 
me burning, 

Soon I heard again a tapping somewhat louder than 
before ; 

1 Surely,' said I, ' surely that is something at my 
window lattice ; 

Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery 
explore — 

Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery ex- 
plore ; — 35 
'Tis the wind, and nothing more ! ' 

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a 

flirt and flutter, 
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days 

of yore : 
Not the least obeisance made he ; not an instant 

stopped or stayed he ; 
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my 

chamber door — 40 



72 THE RAVEN 

Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just above my cham- 
ber door — 

Perched, and sat, and nothing more. 

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into 
smiling, 

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance 
it wore, 

* Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I 
said, ' art sure no craven, 45 

Ghastly grim and ancient Raven, wandering from the 
Nightly shore — 

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plu- 
tonian ° shore ! ' 

Quoth the Raven, ' Nevermore.' 

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear dis- 
course so plainly, 

Though its answer little meaning — little relevancy 
bore ; 50 

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human 
being 

Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his 
chamber door — 

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his 
chamber door, 

With such name as ' Nevermore.' 

But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, 
spoke only 55 



THE RAVEN 73 

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did 

outpour. 
Nothing farther then he uttered ; not a feather then 

he fluttered — 
Till I scarcely more than muttered, 'Other friends 

have flown before — 
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have 

flown before.' 

Then the bird said, ' Nevermore.' 60 

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly 
spoken, 

' Doubtless,' said I, ' what it utters is its only stock 
and store, 

Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerci- 
ful disaster 

Followed fast and followed faster, till his songs one 
burden bore — 

Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden 
bore 65 

Of " Never — nevermore." 

But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into 

smiling, 
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird 

and bust and door ; 
Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to 

linking 



74 THE RAVEN 

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird 
of yore — 70 

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and omi- 
nous bird of yore 

Meant in croaking ' Nevermore.' 

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable ex- 
pressing 

To the fowl, whose fiery eyes now burned into my 
bosom's core; 

This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease 
reclining 75 

On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight 
gloated o'er, 

But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight 
gloating o'er, 

She shall press, ah, nevermore ! 

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed 

from an unseen censer, 
Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the 

tufted floor. 80 

'Wretch,' I cried, 'thy God hath lent thee — by 

these angels he hath sent thee 
Respite — respite and nepenthe from thy memories 

of Lenore! 
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this 

lost Lenore ! ' 

Quoth the Raven, ' Nevermore.' 



THE RAVEN 



7S 



' Prophet ! ' said I, ' thing of evil ! — prophet still, if 
bird or devil ! — 85 

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed 
thee here ashore, 

Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land en- 
chanted — 

On this home by Horror haunted — tell me truly, I 
implore — 

Is there — is there balm in Gilead ? ° — tell me — tell 
me, I implore ! ' 

Quoth the Raven, ' Nevermore.' 90 

' Prophet ! ' said I, ' thing of evil ! — prophet still, if 

bird or devil ! 
By that Heaven that bends above us — by that God 

we both adore — 
Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if, within the distant 

Aidenn, 
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels 

name Lenore — 
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels 

name Lenore.' 95 

Quoth the Raven, ' Nevermore.' 

1 Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend ! ' I 

shrieked, upstarting — 
'Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's 

Plutonian shore ! 



y6 THE BELLS 

Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul 

hath spoken ! 
Leave my loneliness unbroken ! — quit the bust above 

my door ! ioo 

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form 

from off my door ! ' 

Quoth the Raven, ' Nevermore.' 

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is 

sitting 
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber 

door; 
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that 

is dreaming, 105 

And the lamplight, o'er him streaming, throws his 

shadow on the floor; 
And my soul from out that shadow, that lies floating 

on the floor, 

Shall be lifted — nevermore! 



THE BELLS 

Edgar Allan Poe 

Hear the sledges with the bells — 
Silver bells ! 
What a world of merriment their melody foretells ! 
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, 

In the icy air of night ! 5 



THE BELLS 77 

While the stars that oversprinkle 
All the heavens, seem to twinkle 
With a crystalline delight ; 
Keeping time, time, time, 
In a sort of Runic rhyme, 10 

To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells 
From the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
Bells, bells, bells — 
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. 

Hear the mellow wedding bells — 15 

Golden bells ! 
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells ! 
Through the balmy air of night 
How they ring out their delight ! 

From the molten-golden notes, 20 

All in time, 
What a liquid ditty floats 
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats 
On the moon ! 
O, from out the sounding cells, 25 

What a gush of euphony voluminously wells ! 
How it swells, 
How it dwells 
On the future ! how it tells 
Of the rapture that impels 30 

To the swinging and the ringing 
Of the bells, bells, bells, 



yS THE BELLS 

Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
Bells, bells, bells — 
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells ! 35 



Hear the loud alarum bells — 
Brazen bells ! 
What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells ! 
In the startled ear of night 
How they scream out their affright ! 40 

Too much horrified to speak, 
They can only shriek, shriek, 
Out of time, 
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire, 
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire, 45 
Leaping higher, higher, higher, 
With a desperate desire, 
And a resolute endeavor, 
Now — now to sit, or never, 
By the side of the pale-faced moon.. 50 

O, the bells, bells, bells ! 
What a tale their terror tells 
Of Despair ! 
How they clang, and clash, and roar ! 
What a horror they outpour 55 

On the bosom of the palpitating air ! 
Yet the ear, it fully knows, 
By the twanging 
And the clanging, 



THE BELLS yg 

How the danger ebbs and flows ; 60 

Yet the ear distinctly tells, 
In the jangling 
And the wrangling, 
How the danger sinks and swells, 
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the 
bells — 65 

Of the bells — 
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
Bells, bells, bells — 
In the clamor and the clangor of the bells ! 

Hear the tolling of the bells — 70 

Iron bells ! 
What a world of solemn thought their monody compels ! 
In the silence of the night, 
How we shiver with affright, 
At the melancholy menace of their tone ! 75 

For every sound that floats 
From the rust within their throats, 

Is a groan. 
And the people — ah, the people — 
They that dwell up in the steeple, 80 

All alone, 
And who, tolling, tolling, tolling, 

In that muffled monotone, 
Feel a glory in so rolling 

On the human heart a stone — 85 



80 THE BELLS 

They are neither man nor woman — 
They are neither brute nor human — 

They are Ghouls ; 
And their king it is who tolls, 
And he rolls, rolls, rolls, 90 

Rolls 
A paean from the bells ! 
And his merry bosom swells 
With the paean of the bells ! 
And he dances, and he yells ; 95 

Keeping time, time, time, 
In a sort of Runic rhyme, 
To the paean of the bells — 

Of the bells ; 
Keeping time, time, time, 100 

In a sort of Runic rhyme, 
To the throbbing of the bells — 
Of the bells, bells, bells — 

To the sobbing of the bells ; 
Keeping time, time, time, 105 

As he knells, knells, knells, 
In a happy Runic rhyme, 

To the rolling of the bells — 
Of the bells, bells, bells ; 

To the tolling of the bells — no 

Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
Bells, bells, bells — 
To the moaning and the groaning of the bells ! 



BUGLE SONG 8 1 

BUGLE SONG 

Alfred Tennyson 

Alfred Tennyson (i 809-1 892), probably the greatest and cer- 
tainly the most widely read poet of the last half-century, was born at 
Somersby, Lincolnshire. His early education he received at home, 
entering Cambridge at eighteen, where he took the Chancellor's Prize 
for the best English poem. His long life was devoted exclusively to 
literature. In 1830 he published a volume of poems, and a second 
volume two years later. These poems, though not without defects, 
were full of promise, but they met with scant favor at the hands of the 
critics. For ten years he remained silent, in the meantime studying 
and perfecting his art. In 1842 he published a third volume, contain- 
ing many of his former poems in revised form and much new material. 
He at once became the foremost figure in English letters, a position he 
maintained till his death. In 1850, upon the death of Wordsworth, 
he was appointed poet laureate. His principal works are ' Locksley 
Hall,' • The Princess,' ' Maud,' ' Idylls of the King,' and ' In Memoriam,' 
together with a great number of short poems of rare beauty. All his 
works are marked by surpassing beauty of form, elevation of thought, 
and great moral earnestness. He was raised to the peerage in 1884. 

The splendor falls on castle walls 

And snowy summits old in story : 
The long light shakes across the lakes 
And the wild cataract leaps in glory. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, 5 

Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 

O hark ! O hear ! how thin and clear, 
And thinner, clearer, farther going ! 

O sweet and far from cliff and scar 

The horns of Elfland faintly blowing ! 10 



82 THE BROOK 

Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying : 
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 

O Love, they die in yon rich sky, 

They faint on hill or field or river : 
Our echoes roll from soul to soul, 15 

And grow forever and forever. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, 
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. 



THE BROOK 

Alfred Tennyson 

I come from haunts of coot and hern, 

I make a sudden sally 
And sparkle out among the fern, 

To bicker down a valley. 

By thirty hills I hurry down, 5 

Or slip between the ridges, 
By twenty thorps, a little town, 

And half a hundred bridges. 

Till last by Philip's farm I flow 

To join the brimming river ; 10 

For men may come and men may go, 

But I go on forever. 



THE BROOK 83 

I chatter over stony ways, 

In little sharps and trebles, 
I bubble into eddying bays, 15 

I babble on the pebbles. 

With many a curve my banks I fret 

By many a field and fallow, 
And many a fairy foreland set 

With willow-weed and mallow. 20 

I chatter, chatter, as I flow 

To join the brimming river ; 
For men may come and men may go, 

But I go on forever. 

I wind about, and in and out, 25 

With here a blossom sailing, 
And here and there a lusty trout, 

And here and there a grayling, 

And here and there a foamy flake 

Upon me, as I travel 30 

With many a silvery waterbreak 
Above the golden gravel, 

And draw them all along, and flow 

To join the brimming river; 
For men may come and men may go, 35 

But I go on forever. 



84 RING OUT, WILD BELLS 

I steal by lawns and grassy plots, 

I slide by hazel covers, 
I move the sweet forget-me-nots 

That grow for happy lovers. 40 

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, 
Among my skimming swallows ; 

I make the netted sunbeam dance 
Against my sandy shallows. 

I murmur under moon and stars 45 

In brambly wildernesses ; 
I linger by my shingly bars ; 

I loiter round my cresses ; 

And out again I curve and flow 

To join the brimming river ; 50 

For men may come and men may go, 
But I go on forever. 



RING OUT, WILD BELLS 

Alfred Tennyson 

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, 
The flying cloud, the frosty light : 
The year is dying in the night : 

Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. 



RING OUT, WILD BELLS 85 

Ring out the old, ring in the new, 5 

Ring, happy bells, across the snow : 
The year is going, let him go : 

Ring out the false, ring in the true. 

Ring out the grief that saps the mind, 

For those that here we see no more : 10 

Ring out the feud of rich and poor, 

Ring in redress to all mankind. 

Ring out a slowly dying cause, 
And ancient forms of party strife : 
Ring in the nobler modes of life, 15 

With sweeter manners, purer laws. 

Ring out the want, the care, the sin, 
The faithless coldness of the times : 
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes, 

But ring the fuller minstrel in. 20 

Ring out false pride in place and blood, 
The civic slander and the spite : 
Ring in the love of truth and right, 

Ring in the common love of good. 

Ring out old shapes of foul disease : 25 

Ring out the narrowing lust of gold : 
Ring out the thousand wars of old, 

Ring in the thousand years of peace. 



86 THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE 

Ring in the valiant and the free, 

The larger heart, the kindlier hand : 30 

Ring out the darkness of the land, 

Ring in the Christ that is to be. 



THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE 

Alfred Tennyson 

Half a league, half a league, 
Half a league onward, 
All in the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 
* Forward, the Light Brigade ! 5 

Charge for the guns ! ' he said : 
Into the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 

' Forward, the Light Brigade ! ' 

Was there a man dismayed ? 10 

Not though the soldier knew 

Some one had blundered : 
Theirs not to make reply, 
Theirs not to reason why, 
Theirs but to do and die : — 15 

Into the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 



THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE 87 

Cannon to right of them, 

Cannon to left of them, 

Cannon in front of them 20 

Volleyed and thundered. 
Stormed at with shot and shell, 
Boldly they rode and well : 
Into the jaws of Death, 
Into the mouth of Hell 25 

Rode the six hundred. 

Flashed all their sabres bare, 

Flashed as they turned in air, 

Sabring the gunners there, 

Charging an army, while 30 

All the world wondered. 
Plunged in the battery smoke, 
Right through the line they broke : 
Cossack and Russian 
Reeled from the sabre-stroke — 35 

Shattered and sundered. 
Then they rode back, but not — 

Not the six hundred. 

Cannon to right of them, 

Cannon to left of them, 40 

Cannon behind them 

Volleyed and thundered. 
Stormed at with shot and shell, 
While horse and hero fell, 



88 THE 'REVENGE" 

They that had fought so well 45 

Came through the jaws of Death, 
Back from the mouth of Hell, 
All that was left of them, 
Left of six hundred. 

When can their glory fade ? 50 

Oh, the wild charge they made ! 

All the world wondered. 
Honor the charge they made ! 
Honor the Light Brigade ! 

Noble six hundred. 55 



THE 'REVENGE' 
A BALLAD OF THE FLEET 

Alfred Tennyson 

I 

At Flores in the Azores Sir Richard Grenville lay, 

And a pinnace, like a flutter' d bird, came flying from 
far away : 

' Spanish ships of war at sea ! we have sighted fifty- 
three ! ' 

Then sware Lord Thomas Howard : ' 'Fore God I am 
no coward ; 

But I cannot meet them here, for my ships are out 
of gear, 5 



THE < REVENGE" 89 

And the half my men are sick. I must fly, but follow 
quick. 

We are six ships of the line ; can we fight with fifty- 
three ? ' 

11 

Then spake Sir Richard Grenville : ' I know you are 

no coward ; 
You fly them for a moment to fight with them again. 
But I've ninety men and more that are lying sick 

ashore. 10 

I should count myself the coward if I left them, my 

Lord Howard, 
To these Inquisition dogs and the devildoms of Spain.' 

in 

So Lord Howard passed away with five ships of war 

that day, 
Till he melted like a cloud in the silent summer heaven ; 
But Sir Richard bore in hand all his sick men from 

the land 15 

Very carefully and slow, 
Men of Bideford in Devon, 
And we laid them on the ballast down below ; 
For we brought them all aboard, 
And they blest him in their pain, that they were not 

left to Spain, 20 

To the thumbscrew and the stake, for the glory of the 

Lord. 



90 THE < REVENGE" 

IV 

He had only a hundred seamen to work the ship and 

to fight, 
And he sail'd away from Flores till the Spaniard 

came in sight, 
With his huge sea-castles heaving upon the weather 

bow. 
' Shall we right or shall we fly ? 25 

Good Sir Richard, tell us now, 
For to fight is but to die ! 

There'll be little of us left by the time this sun be set.' 
And Sir Richard said again : ' We be all good English 

men. 
Let us bang these dogs of Seville, the children of the 

devil, 30 

For I never turn'd my back upon Don° or devil yet.' 

v 

Sir Richard spoke and he laugh'd, and we roar'd a 

hurrah, and so 
The little Revenge ran on sheer into the heart of the 

foe, 
With her hundred fighters on deck, and her ninety 

sick below ; 
For half of their fleet to the right and half to the left 

were seen, 35 

And the little Revenge ran on thro' the long sea-lane 

between. 



THE 'REVENGE" 91 

VI 

Thousands of their soldiers look'd down from their 

decks and laugh'd, 
Thousands of their seamen made mock at the mad 

little craft 
Running on and on, till delay'd 
By their mountain-like San Philip that, of fifteen 

hundred tons, 40 

And up-shadowing high above us with her yawning 

tiers of guns, 
Took the breath from our sails, and we stay'd. 

VII 

And while now the great San Philip hung above us 
like a cloud 

Whence the thunderbolt will fall 

Long and loud, 45 

Four galleons drew away 

From the Spanish fleet that day, 

And two upon the larboard and two upon the star- 
board lay, 

And the battle-thunder broke from them all. 

VIII 

But anon the great San Philip, she bethought herself 
and went 50 

Having that within her womb that had left her ill 
content ; 



92 THE 'REVENGE" 

And the rest they came aboard us, and they fought 

us hand to hand, 
For a dozen times they came with their pikes and 

musketeers, 
And a dozen times we shook 'em off as a dog that 

shakes his ears 
When he leaps from the water to the land. 55 

IX 

And the sun went down, and the stars came out far 
over the summer sea, 

But never a moment ceased the fight of the one and 
the fifty-three. 

Ship after ship, the whole night long, their high-built 
galleons came, 

Ship after ship, the whole night long, with her battle- 
thunder and flame ; 

Ship after ship, the whole night long, drew back with 
her dead and her shame. 60 

For some were sunk and many were shatter'd, and 
so could fight us no more — 

God of battles, was ever a battle like this in the world 

before ? 

x 

For he said ' Fight on ! fight on ! ' 
Tho' his vessel was all but a wreck ; 
And it chanced that, when half of the short summer 
night was gone, 65 

With a grisly wound to be drest he had left the deck, 



THE < REVENGE" 93 

But a bullet struck him that was dressing it suddenly 

dead, 
And himself he was wounded again in the side and 

the head, 
And he said ' Fight on ! fight on ! ' 

XI 

And the night went down, and the sun smiled out far 

over the summer sea, 70 

And the Spanish fleet with broken sides lay round us 

all in a ring ; 
But they dared not touch us again, for they fear'd 

that we still could sting, 
So they watch'd what the end would be. 
And we had not fought them in vain, 
But in perilous plight were we, 75 

Seeing forty of our poor hundred were slain, 
And half of the rest of us maim'd for life 
In the crash of the cannonades and the desperate 

strife ; 
And the sick men down in the hold were most of 

them stark and cold, 
And the pikes were all broken or bent, and the powder 

was all of it spent ; 80 

And the masts and the rigging were lying over the 

side ; 
But Sir Richard cried in his English pride, 
1 We have fought such a fight for a day and a night 



94 THE 'REVENGE" 

As may never be fought again ! 

We have won great glory, my men ! 85 

And a day less or more 

At sea or ashore, 

We die — does it matter when ? 

Sink me the ship, Master Gunner — sink her, split 

her in twain ! 
Fall into the hands of God, not into the hands of 

Spain ! ' 90 

XII 

And the gunner said 'Ay, ay,' but the seamen made 

reply : 
1 We have children, we have wives, 
And the Lord hath spared our lives. 
We will make the Spaniard promise, if we yield, to 

let us go ; 
We shall live to fight again and to strike another 

blow.' 95 

And the lion there lay dying, and they yielded to the 

foe. 

XIII 

And the stately Spanish men to their flagship bore 

him then, 
Where they laid him by the mast, old Sir Richard 

caught at last, 
And they praised him to his face with their courtly 

foreign grace ; 



THE 'REVENGE" 95 

But he rose upon their decks, and he cried : 100 

1 I have fought for Queen and Faith like a valiant 

man and true; 
I have only done my duty as a man is bound to do ; 
With a joyful spirit I Sir Richard Grenville die ! ' 
And he fell upon their decks, and he died. 

XIV 

And they stared at the dead that had been so valiant 

and true, 105 

And had holden the power and glory of Spain so 

cheap 
That he dared her with one little ship and his English 

few; 
Was he devil or man ? He was devil for aught they 

knew, 
But they sank his body with honor down into the 

deep, 
And they manned the Revenge with a swarthier alien 

crew, no 

And away she sailed with her loss and longed for her 

own ; 
When a wind from the lands they had ruined awoke 

from sleep, 
And the water began to heave and the weather to 

moan, 
And or ever that evening ended a great gale blew, 
And a wave like the wave that is raised by an earth- 
quake grew, 115 



96 GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT 

Till it smote on their hulls and their sails and their 
masts and their flags, 

And the whole sea plunged and fell on the shot- 
shattered navy of Spain, 

And the little Revenge herself went down by the 
island crags 

To be lost evermore in the main. 



HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS 
FROM GHENT TO AIX° 

Robert Browning 

Robert Browning (1812-1889) ranks with Tennyson as one of the 
two greatest poets of the latter part of the nineteenth century. He was 
extremely fortunate in his home life and the sympathetic companionship 
of his father, a man of culture and wide reading. Intensely fond of 
nature, music, and art, and gifted with a vivid imagination and strong 
dramatic instincts, he turned to literature as a means of expression. 
During a long life he wrote an enormous number of works, and though 
never popular in the same sense that Termyson is popular, he has had 
a large following of ardent admirers. Much of his work is obscure, and 
written with what seems a disregard of artistic form, but there has prob- 
ably been no poet since Shakespeare with a more profound insight into 
human character. When thirty-four years of age he married Elizabeth 
Barrett, who also was a poet of great, though uneven, powers, and his 
married life was ideally happy. Among Browning's chief works are 
• The Blot in the 'Scutcheon,' ' Pippa Passes,' 'The Ring and the Book,' 
1 Men and Women,' and * Dramatis Personse.' 

I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he ; 

I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three ; 



GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT 97 

'Good speed!' cried the watch, as the gate-bolts 

undrew ; 
1 Speed ! ' echoed the wall to us galloping through ; 
Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, 5 
And into the midnight we galloped abreast. 

Not a word to each other ; we kept the great pace 
Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our 

place ; 
I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight, 9 
Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right, 
Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit, 
Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit. 

'Twas moonset at starting ; but while we drew near 
Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear ; 
At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see ; 15 
At Diiffeld, 'twas morning as plain as could be ; 
And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half- 
chime, 
So Joris broke silence with, ' Yet there is time ! ' 

At Aershot, up leaped of a sudden the sun, 

And against him the cattle stood black every one, 20 

To stare through the mist at us galloping past, 

And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last, 

With resolute shoulders each butting away 

The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray : 

H 



98 GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT 

And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent 
back 25 

For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track ; 

And one eye's black intelligence, — ever that glance 

O'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance ! 

And the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and 
anon 

His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on. 30 

By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, 'Stay 

spur ! 
Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her, 
We'll remember at Aix' — for one heard the quick 

wheeze 
Of her chest, saw the stretched neck, and staggering 

knees, 
And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank, 35 
As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank. 

So we were left galloping, Joris and I, 
Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky ; 
The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh, 
'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like 
chaff ; 40 

Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white, 
And ' Gallop,' gasped Joris, ' for Aix is in sight ! 

1 How they'll greet us ! ' and all in a moment his roan 
Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone ; 44 



HERVE RIEL 99 

And there was my Roland, to bear the whole weight 
Of the news which alone could save Aix from her 

fate, 
With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim, 
And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim. 

Then I cast my loose buff-coat, each holster let fall, 
Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all, 50 
Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear, 
Called my Roland his pet name, my horse without 

peer; 
Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad 

or good, 
Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood. 

And all I remember is, friends flocking round 55 

As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground, 
And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine, 
As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine, 
Which (the burgesses voted by common consent) 
Was no more than his due who brought good news 
from Ghent. 60 



HERVE RIEL° 

Robert Browning 

On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred ninety- 
two, 
Did the English fight the French, — woe to France ! 



IOO HERVE RIEL 

And, the thirty-first of May, helter-skelter through the 

blue, 
Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of sharks 

pursue, 
Came crowding ship on ship to Saint-Malo on the 

Ranee, 5 

With the English fleet in view. 

'Twas the squadron that escaped, with the victor in 
full chase, 
First and foremost of the drove, in his great ship, 
Damf reville ; 
Close on him fled, great and small, 
Twenty-two good ships in all ; 10 

And they signalled to the place 
' Help the winners of a race ! 

Get us guidance, give us harbor, take us quick — 

or, quicker still, 
Here's the English can and will ! ' 

Then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leapt 

on board; 15 

1 Why, what hope or chance have ships like these 

to pass ? ' laughed they : 

1 Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage 

scarred and scored, — 
Shall the Formidable here, with her twelve and 
eighty guns, 
Think to make the river-mouth by the single narrow 
way, 



HERVE RIEL 101 

Trust to enter — where 'tis ticklish for a craft of 
twenty tons, 20 

And with flow at full beside ? 
Now, 'tis slackest ebb of tide. 
Reach the mooring ? Rather say, 
While rock stands or water runs, 
Not a ship will leave the bay ! ' 25 

Then was called a council straight. 

Brief and bitter the debate : 

■ Here's the English at our heels ; would you have 

them take in tow 
All that's left us of the fleet, linked together stern 

and bow, 
For a prize to Plymouth Sound ? Better run the 
ships aground ! ' 30 

(Ended Damfreville his speech). 
' Not a minute more to wait ! 
Let the captains all and each 

Shove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels on 
the beach ! 
France must undergo her fate. 35 

1 Give the word ! ' But no such word 
Was ever spoke or heard ; 

For up stood, for out stepped, for in struck amid 

all these 
— A Captain ? A Lieutenant ? A Mate — first, 

second, third ? 



102 HERVE RIEL 

No such man of mark, and meet 40 

With his betters to compete ! 

But a simple Breton sailor, pressed by Tourville 
for the fleet, 
A poor coasting-pilot he, Herve Riel the Croisickese. 

And ' What mockery or malice have we here ? ' 

cries Herve Riel : 

* Are you mad, you Malouins ? ° Are you cowards, 

fools, or rogues ? 45 

Talk to me of rocks and shoals ? me who took the 

soundings, tell 
On my fingers every bank, every shallow, every 
swell 
'Twixt the offing here and Greve where the river 
disembogues ? 
Are you bought by English gold ? Is it love the 
lying's for ? 
Morn and eve, night and day, 50 

Have I piloted your bay, 
Entered free and anchored fast at the foot of Solidor. 
Burn the fleet and ruin France ? That were worse 
than fifty Hogues ! 
Sirs, they know I speak the truth ! Sirs, believe 
me there's a way ! 
Only let me lead the line, 55 

Have the biggest ship to steer, 
Get this Formidable clear, 
Make the others follow mine, 



HERVE RIEL 103 

And I lead them, most and least, by a passage I 
know well, 
Right to Solidor past Greve, 60 

And there lay them safe and sound ; 
And if one ship misbehave, 

— Keel so much as grate the ground, 
Why, I've nothing but my life, — here's my head!' 
cries Herve Riel. 



Not a minute more to wait. 65 

1 Steer us in, then, small and great ! 

Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron ! ' 
cried its chief. 
Captains, give the sailor place ! 

He is Admiral, in brief. 
Still the north- wind, by God's grace ! 70 

See the noble fellow's face 
As the big ship, with a bound, 
Clears the entry like a hound, 

Keeps the passage, as its inch of way were the 
wide sea's profound ! 

See, safe thro' shoal and rock, 75 

How they follow in a flock, 
Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates 
the ground, 

Not a spar that comes to grief ! 
The peril, see, is past. 
All are harbored to the last, 80 



104 HERVE RIEL 

And just as Herve Riel hollas ' Anchor ! ' sure as fate, 
Up the English come — too late ! 

So the storm subsides to calm : 

They see the green trees wave 

On the heights o'erlooking Greve. 85 

Hearts that bled are stanched with balm. 
1 Just our rapture to enhance, 

Let the English rake the bay, 
Gnash their teeth and glare askance 

As they cannonade away ! 90 

'Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the 

Ranee ! ' 
How hope succeeds despair on each Captain's counte- 
nance ! 
Out burst all with one accord, 

' This is Paradise for Hell ! 

Let France, let France's King 95 

Thank the man that did the thing ! ' 
What a shout, and all one word, 

'Herve Riel!' 
As he stepped in front once more, 

Not a symptom of surprise 100 

In the frank blue Breton eyes, 
Just the same man as before. 

Then said Damfreville, ' My friend, 
I must speak out at the end, 

Though I find the speaking hard. 105 



NERVE RIEL 105 

Praise is deeper than the lips : 
You have saved the King his ships, 
You must name your own reward. 
'Faith, our sun was near eclipse ! 
Demand whate'er you will, no 

France remains your debtor still. 
Ask to heart's content and have ! or my name's not 
Damfreville.' 

Then a beam of fun outbroke 

On the bearded mouth that spoke, 

As the honest heart laughed through 115 

Those frank eyes of Breton blue : 

* Since I needs must say my say, 

Since on board the duty's done, 

And from Malo Roads to Croisic Point, what is it 
but a run ? — 
Since 'tis ask and have, I may — 120 

Since the others go ashore — 
Come ! A good whole holiday ! 

Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call the 
Belle Aurore ! ' 

That he asked and that he got, — nothing more. 

Name and deed alike are lost : 125 

Not a pillar nor a post 

In his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell ; 
Not a head in white and black 
On a single fishing-smack, 



106 THE PIED PIPER OF HAM ELI N 

In memory of the man but for whom had gone to 
wrack 130 

All that France saved from the fight whence Eng- 
land bore the bell. 
Go to Paris ; rank on rank 

Search the heroes flung pell-mell 
On the Louvre, face and flank ! 

You shall look long enough ere you come to Herve 

Riel. 135 

So, for better and for worse, Herve Riel, accept my 

verse ! 
In my verse, Herve Riel, do thou once more 
Save the squadron, honor France, love thy wife the 
Belle Aurore ! 



THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN 

Robert Browning 

Hamelin town's in Brunswick, 

By famous Hanover city ; 

The river Weser deep and wide 

Washes its walls on the southern side ; 

A pleasanter spot you never spied ; 

But, when begins my ditty, 

Almost five hundred years ago, 

To see the townsfolk suffer so 

From vermin, was a pity. 



THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN 107 

Rats ! 10 

They fought the dogs and killed the cats, 
And bit the babies in their cradles, 
And ate the cheeses out of the vats, 
And licked the soup from the cook's own ladles, 
Split open the kegs of salted sprats, 15 

Made nests inside men's Sunday hats, 
And even spoiled the women's chats, 
By drowning their speaking 
With shrieking and squeaking 
In fifty different sharps and flats. 20 

At last the people in a body 

To the Town-hall came flocking : 

''Tis clear,' cried they, 'our Mayor's a noddy : 

And as for our Corporation — shocking 

To think we buy gowns lined with ermine 25 

For dolts that can't and won't determine 

What's best to rid us of our vermin ! 

You hope, because you're old and obese, 

To find in the furry civic robe ease? 

Rouse up, Sirs ! Give your brains a racking 30 

To find the remedy we're lacking, 

Or, sure as fate, we'll send you packing ! ' 

At this the Mayor and Corporation 

Quaked with a mighty consternation. 

An hour they sat in council, 35 

At length the Mayor broke silence : 



108 THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN 

* For a guilder I'd my ermine gown sell ; 

I wish I were a mile hence ! 

It's easy to bid one rack one's brain — 

I'm sure my poor head aches again, 40 

I've scratched it so, and all in vain. 

for a trap, a trap, a trap ! ' 

Just as he said this, what should hap 
At the chamber door, but a gentle tap ? 

1 Bless us,' cried the Mayor, 'what's that ? 45 
Anything like the sound of a rat 

Makes my heart go pit-a-pat ! ' 

1 Come in ! ' the Mayor cried, looking bigger : 

And in did come the strangest figure ! 

His queer long coat from heel to head 50 

Was half of yellow, and half of red ; 

And he himself was tall and thin, 

With sharp blue eyes each like a pin, 

And light loose hair, yet swarthy skin,. 

No tuft on cheek, nor beard on chin, 55 

But lips where smiles went out and in — 

There was no guessing his kith and kin ! 

And nobody could enough admire 

The tall man and his quaint attire : 

Quoth one, ' It's as my great-grandsire, 60 

Starting up at the Trump of Doom's tone, 

Had walked this way from his painted tombstone ! ' 

He advanced to the council table : 

And, ' Please your honors,' said he, ' I'm able, 



THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN 109 

By means of a secret charm, to draw 65 

All creatures living beneath the sun, 

That creep or swim, or fly, or run, 

After me so as you never saw ! 

And I chiefly use my charm 

On creatures that do people harm, 70 

The mole, the toad, the newt, the viper ; 

And people call me the Pied Piper. 

Yet,' said he, ' poor piper as I am, 

In Tartary I freed the Cham,° 

Last June, from his huge swarm of gnats ; 75 

I eased in Asia the Nizam ° 

Of a monstrous brood of vampire bats : 

And as for what your brain bewilders, 

If I can rid your town of rats 

Will you give me a thousand guilders V 80 

1 One ? fifty thousand ! ' was the exclamation 

Of the astonished Mayor and Corporation. 

Into the street the Piper stept, 

Smiling first a little smile, 

As if he knew what magic slept 85 

In his quiet pipe the while ; 

Then like a musical adept, 

To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled, 

And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled, 

Like a candle flame where salt is sprinkled ; 90 

And ere three shrill notes the pipe had uttered, 

You heard as if an army muttered ; 



110 THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN 

And the muttering grew to a grumbling ; 

And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling ; 

And out of the houses the rats came tumbling — 95 

Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats, 

Brown rats, black rats, gray rats, tawny rats, 

Grave old plodders, gay young friskers, 

Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins, 

Cocking tails, and pricking whiskers. 100 

Families by tens and dozens, 

Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives — 

Followed the Piper for their lives. 

From street to street he piped, advancing, 

And step for step they followed dancing, 105 

Until they came to the river Weser 

Wherein all plunged and perished, 

Save one, who stout as Julius Caesar, 

Swam across, and lived to carry 

(As he the manuscript he cherished) no 

To Rat-land home his commentary, 

Which was, 'At the first shrill notes of the pipe, 

I heard a sound as of scraping tripe, 

And putting apples wondrous ripe 

Into a cider press's gripe; 115 

And a moving away of pickle-tub boards, 

And a leaving ajar of conserve cupboards, 

And a drawing the corks of train-oil flasks, 

And a breaking the hoops of butter casks ; 

And it seemed as if a voice 120 

(Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery 



THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN ill 

Is breathed) called out, Oh, rats, rejoice ! 

The world is grown to one vast drysaltery ! 

So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon, 

Breakfast, dinner, supper, luncheon ! 125 

And just as a bulky sugar puncheon, 

All ready staved, like a great sun shone 

Glorious, scarce an inch before me, 

Just as methought it said, " Come bore me," 

— I found the Weser rolling o'er me.' 130 

You should have heard the Hamelin people 

Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple ; 

' Go,' cried the Mayor, ' and get long poles ! 

Poke out the nests, and block up the holes ! 

Consult with carpenters and builders, 135 

And leave in our town not even a trace 

Of the rats ! ' When suddenly up the face 

Of the Piper perked in the market-place, 

With a, ' First, if you please, my thousand guilders ! ' 

A thousand guilders ! The Mayor looked blue, 140 

So did the Corporation too. 

For council dinners made rare havoc 

With Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, Hock; 

And half the money would replenish 

Their cellar's biggest butt with Rhenish. 145 

To pay this sum to a wandering fellow 

With a gypsy coat of red and yellow ! 



112 THE PIED PIPER OF HAM ELI N 

1 Besides,' quoth the Mayor, with a knowing wink, 

' Our business was done at the river's brink ; 

We saw with our eyes the vermin sink, 150 

And what's dead can't come to life, I think. 

So, friend, we're not the folks to shrink 

From the duty of giving you something for drink, 

And a matter of money to put in your poke ; 

But as for the guilders, what we spoke 155 

Of them, as you very well know, was in joke — 

Besides, our losses have made us thrifty : 

A thousand guilders ! come, take fifty ! ' 

The Piper's face fell, and he cried, 

' No trifling ! I can't wait beside ! 160 

I've promised to visit by dinner-time 

Bagdad, and accept the prime 

Of the head-cook's pottage, and all he's rich in, 

For having left in the caliph's kitchen, 

Of a nest of scorpions no survivor. 165 

With him I proved no bargain-driver, 

With you, don't think I'll bate a stiver ! 

And folks who put me in a passion 

May find me pipe to another fashion.' 

' How ? ' cried the Mayor, ' d'ye think I'll brook 170 

Being worse treated than a cook ? 

Insulted by a lazy ribald 

With idle pipe and vesture piebald ? 

You threaten us, fellow ? Do your worst, 

Blow your pipe there till you burst.' 175 



THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN 113 

Once more he stept into the street, 
And to his lips again 

Laid his long pipe of smooth, straight cane ; 
And ere he blew three notes (such sweet 
Soft notes as yet musician's cunning 180 

Never gave the enraptured air) 
There was a rustling that seemed like a bustling 
Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling, 
Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering, 
Little hands clapping and little tongues chattering, 185 
And like fowls in a farmyard when barley is scatter- 
ing 
Out came the children running : 
All the little boys and girls, 
With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls, 
And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls, 190 

Tripping and skipping ran merrily after 
The wonderful music with shouting and laughter. 
The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stood 
As if they were changed into blocks of wood, 
Unable to move a step, or cry 195 

To the children merrily skipping by — 
And could only follow with the eye 
That joyous crowd at the Piper's back. 
And now the Mayor was on the rack, 
And the wretched Council's bosoms beat, 200 

As the Piper turned from the High Street 
To where the Weser rolled its waters 
Right in the way of their sons and daughters ! 



1 14 THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN 

However, he turned from south to west, 

And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed, 205 

And after him the children pressed ; 

Great was the joy in every breast. 

1 He never can cross that mighty top ; 

He's forced to let the piping drop, 

And we shall see our children stop ! ' 210 

When, lo ! as they reached the mountain's side, 

A wondrous portal opened wide, 

As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed ; 

And the Piper advanced and the children followed, 

And when all were in to the very last, 215 

The door in the mountain side shut fast. 

Did I say all ? No ! One was lame, 

And could not dance the whole of the way ; 

And in after years, if you would blame 

His sadness, he was used to say, — 220 

' It's dull in our town since my playmates left ! 

I can't forget that I'm bereft 

Of all the pleasant sights they see, 

Which the Piper also promised me : 

For he led us, he said, to a joyous land 225 

Joining the town and just at hand, 

Where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew, 

And flowers put forth a fairer hue, 

And everything was strange and new ; 

The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here, 230 

And their dogs outran our fallow-deer, 

And honey-bees had lost their stings, 



THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN 115 

And horses were born with eagles' wings ; 

And just as I became assured 

My lame foot would be speedily cured, 235 

The music stopped and I stood still, 

And found myself outside the hill 

Left alone against my will, 

To go now limping as before, 

And never hear of that country more ! ' 240 

The Mayor sent east, west, north, and south 

To offer the Piper by word of mouth, 

Wherever it was man's lot to find him, 

Silver and gold to his heart's content, 

If he'd only return the way he went, 245 

And bring the children behind him. 

But when they saw 'twas a lost endeavor, 

And Piper and dancers were gone forever, 

They made a decree that lawyers never 

Should think their records dated duly, 250 

If after the day of the month and year 

These words did not as well appear : 

' And so long after what happened here 

On the twenty-second of July, 

Thirteen hundred and seventy-six : ' 255 

And the better in memory to fix 

The place of the children's last retreat, 

They called it, the Pied Piper's Street — 

Where any one playing on pipe or tabor, 

Was sure for the future to lose his labor. 260 



Il6 THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIJST 

Nor suffered they hostelry or tavern 

To shock with mirth a street so solemn ; 

But opposite the place of the cavern 

They wrote the story on a column, 

And on the great church window painted 265 

The same, to make the world acquainted 

How their children were stolen away ; 

And there it stands to this very day. 

And I must not omit to say 

That in Transylvania there's a tribe 270 

Of alien people, that ascribe 

The outlandish ways and dress 

On which their neighbors lay such stress, 

To their fathers and mothers having risen 

Out of some subterraneous prison 275 

Into which they were trepanned 

Long ago in a mighty band, 

Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick land, 

But how or why, they don't understand. 

So Willy, let you and me be wipers 280 

Of scores out with all men — especially pipers, 

And whether they pipe us free from rats or from 

mice 
If we've promised them aught, let us keep our 

promise. 



THE BATTLE OF NASEBY 117 

THE BATTLE OF NASEBY 

By Obediah Bind-their-kings-in-chains-and-their-nobles-with- 
links-of-iron, sergeant in ireton's regiment 

Thomas Babington Macaulay (1800-1859) was a brilliant essay- 
ist and historian of the nineteenth century. As a child he was ex- 
tremely precocious, writing before eight a ' Compendium of Universal 
History,' and a long poem called the ' Battle of Cheviot.' He was an 
insatiable reader, and his memory was so prodigious that it is said he 
knew Homer and Milton by heart. Although by nature and inclina- 
tion a man of letters, he was also distinguished as a statesman. His 
essays covered a great range of subjects and their wonderfully clear 
style and brilliant movement won for them many readers, and their 
popularity is still very great. Among the best are those on Milton, 
Dryden, Samuel Johnson, Clive, and Warren Hastings. His greatest 
work is his ' History of England,' which, though never completed, is 
the most popular history ever written. Macaulay was also a poet of 
no mean ability, and the simplicity, sonorousness, and movement of 
such poems as the ' Lays of Ancient Rome,' ' Ivry,' ' The Battle 
of Naseby,' etc., make them admirable introductions to the higher 
walks of literature. 

Oh! wherefore come ye forth, in triumph from the 
North, 
With your hands, and your feet, and your raiment 
all red ? 
And wherefore doth your rout send forth a joyous 
shout ? 
And whence be the grapes of the wine-press which 
ye tread ? 

Oh, evil was the root, and bitter was the fruit, 5 

And crimson was the juice of the vintage that we 
trod; 



Il8 THE BATTLE OF NASEBY 

For we trampled on the throng of the haughty and 
the strong, 
Who sate in the high places, and slew the saints of 
God. 

It was about the noon of a glorious day of June, 
That we saw their banners dance, and their cui- 
rasses shine, 10 
And the Man of Blood was there, with his long 
essenced hair, 
And Astley, and Sir Marmaduke, and Rupert of 
the Rhine. 

Like a servant of the Lord, with his Bible and his 
sword, 
The General rode along us to form us to the fight, 
When a murmuring sound broke out, and swell'd 
into a shout 15 

Among the godless horsemen upon the tyrant's 
right. 

And hark ! like the roar of the billows on the shore, 

The cry of battle rises along their charging line ! 
For God ! for the Cause ! for the Church, for the 
Laws ! 
For Charles King of England, and Rupert of the 
Rhine ! 20 

The furious German comes, with his clarions and his 
drums, 
His bravoes of Alsatia, and pages of Whitehall ; ° 



THE BATTLE OF NASEBY 1 19 

They are bursting on our flanks. Grasp your pikes, 
close your ranks, 
For Rupert never comes but to conquer or to fall. 

They are here ! They rush on ! We are broken ! 
We are gone ! 25 

Our left is borne before them like stubble on the 
blast. 
O Lord, put forth thy might ! O Lord, defend the 
right ! 
Stand back to back, in God's name, and fight it to 
the last. 

Stout Skippon hath a wound ; the centre hath given 
ground : 
Hark ! hark ! — What means the trampling of 
horsemen on our rear ? 30 

Whose banner do I see, boys ? 'Tis he, thank God, 
'tis he, boys. 
Bear up another minute ; brave Oliver is here. 

Their heads all stooping low, their points all in a 
row, 
Like a whirlwind on the trees, like a deluge on the 
dykes, 
Our cuirassiers have burst on the ranks of the 
accurst, 35 

And at a shock have scattered the forest of his 
pikes. 



120 HORATIUS 

Fast, fast, the gallants ride, in some safe nook to 
hide 
Their coward heads, predestined to rot on Temple 
Bar.° 
And he — he turns, he flies ; — shame on those cruel 
eyes 
That bore to look on torture and dare not look on 
war. 40 
♦ 

HORATIUS 

A LAY MADE ABOUT THE YEAR OF THE CITY 

CCCLX 

Thomas Babington Macaulay 

Lars Porsena of Clusium 

By the Nine Gods he swore 
That the great house of Tarquin 

Should suffer wrong no more. 
By the Nine Gods he swore it, 5 

And named a try sting day, 
And bade his messengers ride forth, 
East and west and south and north, 

To summon his array. 

East and west and south and north 10 

The messengers ride fast, 
And tower and town and cottage 

Have heard the trumpet's blast. 



HORATIUS 121 

Shame on the false Etruscan 

Who lingers in his home, 15 

When Porsena of Clusium 

Is on the march for Rome. 

The horsemen and the footmen 

Are pouring in amain 
From many a stately market-place ; 20 

From many a fruitful plain ; 
From many a lonely hamlet, 

Which, hid by beech and pine, 
Like an eagle's nest, hangs on the crest 

Of purple Apennine ; 25 

From lordly Volaterrae, 

Where scowls the far-famed hold 
Piled by the hands of giants 

For godlike kings of old ; 
From seagirt Populonia, 30 

Whose sentinels descry 
Sardinia's snowy mountain-tops 

Fringing the southern sky ; 

From the proud mart of Pisae, 

Queen of the western waves, 35 

Where ride Massilia's triremes 

Heavy with fair-haired slaves ; 
From where sweet Clanis wanders 

Through corn and vines and flowers ; 



122 HORATIUS 

From where Cortona lifts to heaven 40 

Her diadem of towers. 

Tall are the oaks whose acorns 

Drop in dark Auser's rill ; 
Fat are the stags that champ the boughs 

Of the Ciminian hill ; 45 

Beyond all streams Clitumnus 

Is to the herdsman dear ; 
Best of all pools the fowler loves 

The great Volsinian mere. 

But now no stroke of woodman 50 

Is heard by Auser's rill ; 
No hunter tracks the stag's green path 

Up the Ciminian hill ; 
Unwatched along Clitumnus 

Grazes the milk-white steer ; 55 

Unharmed the water fowl may dip 

In the Volsinian mere. 

The harvests of Arretium, 

This year old men shall reap, 
This year, young boys in Umbro 60 

Shall plunge the struggling sheep ; 
And in the vats of Luna, 

This year, the must shall foam 
Round the white feet of laughing girls 

Whose sires have marched to Rome. 65 



HORATIUS 123 

There be thirty chosen prophets, 

The wisest of the land, 
Who alway by Lars Porsena 

Both morn and evening stand : 
Evening and morn the Thirty 70 

Have turned the verses o'er, 
Traced from the right on linen white 

By mighty seers of yore. 

And with one voice the Thirty 

Have their glad answer given : 75 

' Go forth, go forth, Lars Porsena ; 

Go forth, beloved of Heaven ; 
Go, and return in glory 

To Clusium's royal dome ; 
And hang round Nurscia's altars 80 

The golden shields of Rome.' 

And now hath every city 

Sent up her tale of men ; 
The foot are fourscore thousand, 

The horse are thousands ten : 85 

Before the gates of Sutrium 

Is met the great array. 
A proud man was Lars Porsena 

Upon the trysting day. 

For all the Etruscan armies 90 

Were ranged beneath his eye, 



124 HORATIUS 

And many a banished Roman, 

And many a stout ally ; 
And with a mighty following 

To join the muster came 95 

The Tusculan Mamilius, 

Prince of the Latian name. 

But by the yellow Tiber 

Was tumult and affright : 
From all the spacious champaign 100 

To Rome men took their flight. 
A mile around the city, 

The throng stopped up the ways ; 
A fearful sight it was to see 

Through two long nights and days. 105 

And droves of mules and asses 

Laden with skins of wine, 
And endless flocks of goats and sheep, 

And endless herds of kine, 
And endless trains of wagons no 

That creaked beneath the weight 
Of corn-sacks and of household goods, 

Choked every roaring gate. 

Now, from the rock Tarpeian, 

Could the wan burghers spy 115 

The line of blazing villages 

Red in the midnight sky. 



HORATIUS 125 

The Fathers of the City, 

They sat all night and day, 
For every hour some horseman came 120 

With tidings of dismay. 

To eastward and to westward 

Have spread the Tuscan bands ; 
Nor house, nor fence, nor dovecote 

In Crustumerium stands. 125 

Verbenna down to Ostia 

Hath wasted all the plain ; 
Astur hath stormed Janiculum, 

And the stout guards are slain. 

I wis, in all the Senate, 130 

There was no heart so bold, 
But sore it ached and fast it beat, 

When that ill news was told. 
Forthwith up rose the Consul, 

Up rose the Fathers all ; 135 

In haste they girded up their gowns, 

And hied them to the wall. 

They held a council standing 

Before the River-Gate ; 
Short time was there, ye well may guess, 140 

For musing or debate. 
Out spake the Consul roundly : 

1 The bridge must straight go down ; 



126 HORATIUS 

For, since Janiculum is lost, 

Nought else can save the town.' 145 

Just then a scout came flying, 

All wild with haste and fear ; 
' To arms ! to arms ! Sir Consul : 

Lars Porsena is here.' 
On the low hills to westward 150 

The Consul fixed his eye, 
And saw the swarthy storm of dust 

Rise fast along the sky. 

And nearer fast and nearer 

Doth the red whirlwind come ; 155 

And louder still and still more loud, 
From underneath that rolling cloud, 
Is heard the trumpet's war-note proud, 

The trampling, and the hum. 
And plainly and more plainly 160 

Now through the gloom appears, 
Far to left and far to right, 
In broken gleams of dark-blue light, 
The long array of helmets bright, 

The long array of spears. 165 

And plainly and more plainly, 

Above that glimmering line, 
Now might ye see the banners 

Of twelve fair cities shine ; 



HORATIUS 127 

But the banner of proud Clusium 170 

Was highest of them all, 
The terror of the Umbrian, 

The terror of the Gaul. 

And plainly and more plainly 

Now might the burghers know, 175 

By port and vest, by horse and crest, 

Each warlike Lucumo. 
There Cilnius of Arretium 

On his fleet roan was seen ; 
And Astur of the four-fold shield, 180 

Girt with the brand none else may wield, 
Tolumnius with the belt of gold, 
And dark Verbenna from the hold 

By reedy Thrasymene. 

Fast by the royal standard, 185 

O'erlooking all the war, 
Lars Porsena of Clusium 

Sat in his ivory car. 
By the right wheel rode Mamilius 

Prince of the Latian name ; 190 

And by the left false Sextus, 

That wrought the deed of shame. 

But when the face of Sextus 

Was seen among the foes, 
A yell that rent the firmament 195 

From all the town arose. 



128 HORATIUS 

On the house-tops was no woman 
But spat towards him and hissed, 

No child but screamed out curses, 

And shook its little fist. 200 

But the Consul's brow was sad, 

And the Consul's speech was low, 
And darkly looked he at the wall, 

And darkly at the foe. 
1 Their van will be upon us 205 

Before the bridge goes down ; 
And if they once may win the bridge, 

What hope to save the town ? ' 

Then out spake brave Horatius, 

The Captain of the Gate : 210 

' To every man upon this earth 

Death cometh soon or late. 
And how can man die better 

Than facing fearful odds, 
For the ashes of his fathers, 215 

And the temples of his Gods, 

1 And for the tender mother 

Who dandled him to rest, 
And for the wife who nurses 

His baby at her breast, 220 

And for the holy maidens 

Who feed the eternal flame, 



HORATIUS 129 

To save them from false Sextus 
That wrought the deed of shame ? 

1 Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul, 225 

With all the speed ye may ; 
I, with two more to help me, 

Will hold the foe in play. 
In yon strait path a thousand 

May well be stopped by three. 230 

Now who will stand on either hand, 

And keep the bridge with me ? ' 

Then out spake Spurius Lartius ; 

A Ramnian proud was he : 
* Lo, I will stand at thy right hand, 235, 

And keep the bridge with thee.' 
And out spake strong Herminius ; 

Of Titian blood was he : 
1 I will abide on thy left side, 

And keep the bridge with thee.' 240 

' Horatius,' quoth the Consul, 

' As thou say est, so let it be.' 
And straight against that great array 

Forth went the dauntless Three. 
For Romans in Rome's quarrel 245 

Spared neither land nor gold, 
Nor son nor wife, nor limb nor life, 

In the brave days of old. 

K 



130 HORATIUS 

Then none was for a party ; 

Then all were for the state ; 250 

Then the great man helped the poor, 

And the poor man loved the great : 
Then lands were fairly portioned ; 

Then spoils were fairly sold : 
The Romans were like brothers 255 

In the brave days of old. 

Now Roman is to Roman 

More hateful than a foe, 
And the Tribunes beard the high, 

And the Fathers grind the low. 260 

As we wax hot in faction, 

In battle we wax cold : 
Wherefore men fight not as they fought 

In the brave days of old. 

Now while the Three were tightening 265 

Their harness on their backs, 
The Consul was the foremost man 

To take in hand an axe : 
And Fathers mixed with Commons 

Seized hatchet, bar, and crow, 270 

And smote upon the planks above, 

And loosed the props below. 

Meanwhile the Tuscan army, 

Right glorious to behold, 
Came flashing back the noonday light, 275 



HORATIUS 131 

Rank behind rank, like surges bright 

Of a broad sea of gold. 
Four hundred trumpets sounded 

A peal of warlike glee, 
As that great host, with measured tread, 280 

And spears advanced, and ensigns spread, 
Rolled slowly towards the bridge's head, 

Where stood the dauntless Three. 

The Three stood calm and silent, 

And looked upon the foes, 285 

And a great shout of laughter 

From all the vanguard rose : 
And forth three chiefs came spurring 

Before that deep array ; 
To earth they sprang, their swords they drew, 290 
And lifted high their shields, and flew 

To win the narrow way : 

Aunus from green Tifernum, 

Lord of the Hill of Vines ; 
And Seius, whose eight hundred slaves 295 

Sicken in Ilva's mines ; 
And Picus, long to Clusium 

Vassal in peace and war, 
Who led to fight his Umbrian powers 
From that grey crag where, girt with towers, 300 
The fortress of Nequinum lowers 

O'er the pale waves of Nar. 



132 HORATIUS 

Stout Lartius hurled down Aunus 

Into the stream beneath : 
Herminius struck at Seius, 305 

And clove him to the teeth : 
At Picus brave Horatius 

Darted one fiery thrust ; 
And the proud Umbrian's gilded arms 

Clashed in the bloody dust. 310 

Then Ocnus of Falerii 

Rushed on the Roman Three ; 
And Lausulus of Urgo, 

The rover of the sea ; 
And Aruns of Volsinium, 315 

Who slew the great wild boar, 
The great wild boar that had his den 
Amidst the reeds of Cosa's fen, 
And wasted fields, and slaughtered men, 

Along Albinia's shore. 320 

Herminius smote down Aruns : 
' Lartius laid Ocnus low : 
Right to the heart of Lausulus 

Horatius sent a blow. 
1 Lie there,' he cried, ' fell pirate ! 325 

No more, aghast and pale, 
From Ostia's walls the crowd shall mark 
The track of thy destroying bark. 



HORATIUS 133 

No more Campania's hinds shall fly- 
To woods and caverns when they spy 330 
Thy thrice accursed sail.' 

But now no sound of laughter 

Was heard among the foes. 
A wild and wrathful clamor 

From all the vanguard rose. 335 

Six spears' lengths from the entrance 

Halted that deep array, 
And for a space no man came forth 

To win the narrow way. 

But hark ! the cry is Astur : 340 

And lo ! the ranks divide ; 
And the great Lord of Luna 

Comes with his stately stride. 
Upon his ample shoulders 

Clangs loud the fourfold shield, 345 

And in his hand he shakes the brand 

Which none but he can wield. 

He smiled on those bold Romans 

A smile serene and high ; 
He eyed the flinching Tuscans, 350 

And scorn was in his eye. 
Quoth he, ' The she-wolf 's° litter 

Stand savagely at bay : 
But will ye dare to follow, 

If Astur clears the way ? ' 355 



134 HO RATI US 

Then, whirling up his broadsword 

With both hands to the height 
He rushed against Horatius, 

And smote with all his might. 
With shield and blade Horatius 360 

Right deftly turned the blow. 
The blow, though turned, came yet too nigh ; 
It missed his helm, but gashed his thigh : 
The Tuscans raised a joyful cry 

To see the red blood flow. 365 

He reeled, and on Herminius 

He leaned one breathing-space, 
Then, like a wild cat mad with wounds, 

Sprang right at Astur's face ; 
Through teeth, and skull, and helmet, 370 

So fierce a thrust he sped, 
The good sword stood a hand-breadth out 

Behind the Tuscan's head. 

And the great Lord of Luna 

Fell at that deadly stroke, 375 

As falls on Mount Alvernus 

A thunder-smitten oak. 
Far o'er the crashing forest 

The giant arms lie spread ; 
And the pale augurs, muttering low, 380 

Gaze on the blasted head. 



HO RATI US 135 

On Astur's throat Horatius 

Right firmly pressed his heel, 
And thrice and four times tugged amain, 
Ere he wrenched out the steel. 385 

'And see,' he cried, 'the welcome, 

Fair guests, that waits you here ! 
What noble Lucumo comes next 

To taste our Roman cheer ? ' 

But at his haughty challenge 390 

A sullen murmur ran, 
Mingled of wrath, and shame, and dread, 

Along that glittering van. 
There lacked not men of prowess, 

Nor men of lordly race ; 395 

For all Etruria's noblest 

Were round the fatal place. 

But all Etruria's noblest 

Felt their hearts sink to see 
On the earth the bloody corpses, 400 

In the path the dauntless Three : 
And, from the ghastly entrance 

Where those bold Romans stood, 
All shrank, like boys who unaware, 
Ranging the woods to start a hare, 405 

Come to the mouth of the dark lair 
Where, growling low, a fierce old bear 

Lies amidst bones and blood. 



136 HORATIUS 

Was none who would be foremost 

To lead such dire attack : 410 

But those behind cried ' Forward ! ' 

And those before cried ' Back ! ' 
And backward now and forward 

Wavers the deep array ; 
And on the tossing sea of steel, 415 

To and fro the standards reel ; 
And the victorious trumpet-peal 

Dies fitfully away. 

Yet one man for one moment 

Stood out before the crowd ; 420 

Well known was he to all the Three, 

And they gave him greeting loud, 
' Now welcome, welcome, Sextus ! 

Now welcome to thy home ! 
Why dost thou stay, and turn away ? 425 

Here lies the road to Rome.' 

Thrice looked he at the city ; 

Thrice looked he at the dead ; 
And thrice came on in fury, 

And thrice turned back in dread : 430 

And, white with fear and hatred, 

Scowled at the narrow way 
Where, wallowing in a pool of blood, 

The bravest Tuscans lay. 



H OR ATI US 137 

But meanwhile axe and lever 435 

Have manfully been plied ; 
And now the bridge hangs tottering 

Above the boiling tide. 
1 Come back, come back, Horatius ! ' 

Loud cried the Fathers all. 440 

1 Back, Lartius ! back, Herminius ! 

Back, ere the ruin fall ! ' 

Back darted Spurius Lartius ; 

Herminius darted back : 
And, as they passed, beneath their feet 445 

They felt the timbers crack. 
But when they turned their faces, 

And on the farther shore 
Saw brave Horatius stand alone, 

They would have crossed once more. 450 

But with a crash like thunder 

Fell every loosened beam, 
And, like a dam, the mighty wreck 

Lay right athwart the stream : 
And a long shout of triumph 455 

Rose from the walls of Rome, 
As to the highest turret-tops 

Was splashed the yellow foam. 

And, like a horse unbroken 

When first he feels the rein, 460 



138 HORATIUS 

The furious river struggled hard, 

And tossed his tawny mane, 
And burst the curb, and bounded, 

Rejoicing to be free, 
And whirling down, in fierce career, 465 

Battlement, and plank, and pier, 

Rushed headlong to the sea. 

Alone stood brave Horatius, 

But constant still in mind ; 
Thrice thirty thousand foes before, 470 

And the broad flood behind. 
' Down with him ! ' cried false Sextus, 

With a smile on his pale face. 
' Now yield thee,' cried Lars Porsena, 

' Now yield thee to our grace.' 475 

Round turned he, as not deigning 

Those craven ranks to see ; 
Nought spake he to Lars Porsena, 

To Sextus nought spake he ; 
But he saw on Palatinus 480 

The white porch of his home ; 
And he spake to the noble river 

That rolls by the towers of Rome. 

' Oh, Tiber ! father Tiber ! 

To whom the Romans pray, 485 

A Roman's life, a Roman's arms, 

Take thou in charge this day ! ' 



HORATIUS 139 

So he spake, and speaking, sheathed 

The good sword by his side, 
And with his harness on his back, 490 

Plunged headlong in the tide. 

No sound of joy or sorrow 

Was heard from either bank ; 
But friends and foes in dumb surprise, 
With parted lips and straining eyes, 495 

Stood gazing where he sank ; 
And when above the surges 

They saw his crest appear, 
All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry, 
And even the ranks of Tuscany 500 

Could scarce forbear to cheer. 

But fiercely ran the current, 

Swollen high by months of rain : 
And fast his blood was flowing ; 

And he was sore in pain, 505 

And heavy with his armor, 

And spent with changing blows : 
And oft they thought him sinking, 

But still again he rose. 

Never, I ween, did swimmer, 510 

In such an evil case, 
Struggle through such a raging flood 

Safe to the landing place : 



140 HORATIUS 

But his limbs were borne up bravely 

By the brave heart within, 515 

And our good father Tiber 
Bore bravely up his chin. 

1 Curse on him ! ' quoth false Sextus ; 

' Will not the villain drown ? 
But for this stay, ere close of day 520 

We should have sacked the town ! ' 
1 Heaven help him ! ' quoth Lars Porsena, 

' And bring him safe to shore ; 
For such a gallant feat of arms 

Was never seen before.' 525 

And now he feels the bottom : 

Now on dry earth he stands ; 
Now round him throng the Fathers 

To press his gory hands ; 
And now, with shouts and clapping, 530 

And noise of weeping loud, 
He enters through the River-Gate, 

Borne by the joyous crowd. 

They gave him of the corn-land, 

That was of public right, 535 

As much as two strong oxen 

Could plough from morn till night ; 
And they made a molten image, 

And set it up on high, 



H OR AT I US 141 

And there it stands unto this day 540 

To witness if I lie. 

It stands in the Comitium, 

Plain for all folk to see ; 
Horatius in his harness, 

Halting upon one knee : 545 

And underneath is written, 

In letters all of gold, 
How valiantly he kept the bridge 

In the brave days of old. 

And still his name sounds stirring 550 

Unto the men of Rome, 
As the trumpet-blast that cries to them 

To charge the Volscian home ; 
And wives still pray to Juno 

For boys with hearts as bold 555 

As his who kept the bridge so well 

In the brave days of old. 

And in the nights of winter, 

When the cold north winds blow, 
And the long howling of the wolves 560 

Is heard amidst the snow ; 
When round the lonely cottage 

Roars loud the tempest's din, 
And the good logs of Algidus 

Roar louder yet within ; 565 



142 HORATIUS 

When the oldest cask is opened, 

And the largest lamp is lit ; 
When the chestnuts glow in the embers, 

And the kid turns on the spit ; 
When young and old in circle 570 

Around the firebrands close ; 
When the girls are weaving baskets, 

And the lads are shaping bows ; 

When the goodman mends his armor, 

And trims his helmet's plume ; 575 

When the goodwife's shuttle merrily 

Goes flashing through the loom ; 
With weeping and with laughter 

Still is the story told, 
How well Horatius kept the bridge 580 

In the brave days of old. 



THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB 143 

THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB 

Lord Byron 

George Gordon, Lord Byron (1788-1824) was the descendant of a 
noble and distinguished family, though his father was little better than a 
scoundrel and his mother a weak and passionate woman. His early train- 
ing no doubt did much to spoil him, and throughout his life his many 
fine qualities were clouded by pride, affectation, cynicism, and even 
gross immorality. His first volume of poems, ' Hours of Idleness,' was 
published before he was nineteen, and though meriting little attention 
it was savagely attacked by a critique in the Edinburgh Review. Byron 
replied in his ' English Bards and Scottish Reviewers ' a bitter onslaught 
on contemporary writers in general. Though unjust in the extreme, it 
revealed the really great powers of the young poet. Two years of Con- 
tinental travel resulted in the first two cantos of ' Childe Harold,' on the 
publication of which Byron, in his own phrase, woke to find himself 
famous, and for some years he was the object of an extravagant admira- 
tion. But after an unfortunate marriage, followed by an early separa- 
tion, society, as unreasoning in its blame as in its praise, turned against 
him, and he left his native land never to return. Among his later writ- 
ings are the third and fourth cantos of ' Childe Harold,' ' The Prisoner 
of Chillon,' 'Manfred' and 'Don Juan.' In 1821 the Greek nation 
rose in revolt against their Turkish oppressors, and Byron threw himself 
ardently into their cause. He intended to take the field and fight for 
them in battle, but his life was cut short by a fever, and he died at 
Missolonghi in the thirty-sixth year of his age. 

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, 
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold, 
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea. 
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. 

Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green, 5 
That host with their banners at sunset were seen ; 



144 THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB 

Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown, 
That host on the morrow lay withered and strown. 

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, 
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed ; 10 
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, 
And their hearts but once heaved, and forever were 
still! 

And there lay the steed with his nostrils all wide, 
But through them there rolled not the breath of his 

pride ; 
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, 15 
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. 

And there lay the rider, distorted and pale, 
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail ; 
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, 
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. 20 

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, 
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal ; 
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, 
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord. 



BATTLE OF WATERLOO 145 

BATTLE OF WATERLOO 

Lord Byron 

There was a sound of revelry by night ; 
And Belgium's capital had gathered then 
Her beauty, and her chivalry ; and bright 
The lamps shone o'er fair women, and brave men ; 
A thousand hearts beat happily ; and, when 5 

Music arose, with its voluptuous swell, 
Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again ; 
And all went merry as a marriage bell — 
But hush ! hark ! a deep sound strikes like a rising 
knell, 

Did ye not hear it ? — No ; 'twas but the wind, 10 
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street — 
On with the dance ! let joy be unconfmed ; 
No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet 
To chase the glowing hours, with flying feet — 
But hark ! — that heavy sound breaks in once more, 1 5 
As if the clouds its echo would repeat ; 
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before ! 
Arm ! arm ! it is — it is the cannon's opening roar ! 

Within a windowed niche of that high hall, 

Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain ; he did hear 20 

That sound the first, amidst the festival, 

And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear ; 



146 BATTLE OF WATERLOO 

And, when they smiled, because he deemed it near, 
His heart more truly knew that peal too well, 
Which stretched his father on a bloody bier, 25 
And roused the vengeance, blood alone could quell : 
He rushed into the field, and foremost fighting, fell. 

Ah ! then and there was hurrying to and fro, 
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, 
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago 30 

Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness. 
And there were sudden partings, such as press 
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs 
Which ne'er might be repeated ; who could guess 
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, 35 
Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise ? 

And there was mounting in hot haste : the steed, 
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, 
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, 
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war ; 40 

And the deep thunder peal on peal afar ! 
And near the beat of the alarming drum 
Roused up the soldier ere the morning star ; 
While thronged the citizens with terror dumb, 
Or whispering, with white lips, — ' The foe ! They 
come ! they come ! ' 45 

And wild and high the ' Cameron's gathering ' 

rose ! 
The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills 



BATTLE OF WATERLOO 147 

Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes: — 
How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills, 49 
Savage and shrill ! But with the breath which fills 
Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers 
With the fierce native daring which instils 
The stirring memory of a thousand years ; 
And Evan's, Donald's fame, rings in each clans- 
man's ears ! 54 

And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, 
Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass, 
Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, 
Over the unreturning brave, — alas ! 
Ere evening to be trodden like the grass, 
Which now beneath them, but above shall grow, 60 
In its next verdure, when this fiery mass 
Of living valor, rolling on the foe, 
And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and 
low. 

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life ; 
Last eve, in Beauty's circle proudly gay ; 65 

The midnight brought the signal sound of strife ; 
The morn, the marshalling in arms, — the day, 
Battle's magnificently stern array ! 
The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent, 
The earth is covered thick with other clay 70 

Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent, 
Rider, and horse, — friend, foe, — in one red burial 
blent! 



148 APOSTROPHE TO THE OCEAN 

APOSTROPHE TO THE OCEAN 

Lord Byron 

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, 

There is a rapture on the lonely shore, 
There is society, where none intrudes, 

By the deep sea, and music in its roar. 

I love not man the less, but Nature more, 5 

From these our interviews, in which I steal 

From all I may be, or have been before, 
To mingle with the universe, and feel 
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal. 

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean — roll ! 10 
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain, 

Man marks the earth with ruin — his control 
Stops with the shore ; — upon the watery plain 
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain 

A shadow of man's ravage, save his own, 15 

When for a moment, like a drop of rain, 

He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, 
Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown. 

The armaments which thunderstrike the walls 
Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, 20 

And monarchs tremble in their capitals ; 
The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make 
Their clay creator the vain title take 



APOSTROPHE TO THE OCEAN 149 

Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war, — 

These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, 25 
They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar 
Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar. 

Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee — 
Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they ? 

Thy waters washed them power while they were 
free, 30 

And many a tyrant since ; their shores obey 
The stranger, slave, or savage ; their decay 

Has dried up realms to deserts : — not so thou, 
Unchangeable, save to thy wild waves' play — 

Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow — 35 
Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now. 

Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form 
Glasses itself in tempests ; in all time, 

Calm or convulsed — in breeze or gale or storm, 
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime 40 

Dark heaving; — boundless, endless, and sub- 
lime — 

The image of Eternity — the throne 

Of the Invisible ; even from out thy slime 

The monsters of the deep are made ; each zone 44 
Obeys thee : thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone. 

And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy 
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be 



150 THE CHROIVICLE OF THE DRUM 

Borne, like thy bubbles, onward : from a boy 
I wantoned with thy breakers — they to me 
Were a delight; and if the freshening sea 50 

Made them a terror, — 'twas a pleasing fear ; 
For I was, as it were, a child of thee, 

And trusted to thy billows far and near, 
And laid my hand upon thy mane — as I do here. 



THE CHRONICLE OF THE DRUM 

William Makepeace Thackeray 

William Makepeace Thackeray (1811-1863) was born in Cal- 
cutta, but was early sent to England for his education. He attended 
the famous Charter-house School in London and afterward went to 
Cambridge. He stayed but a short time at Cambridge, leaving college 
to study art on the Continent. Fortunately for English letters, he lost 
his property and was obliged to turn to literature for a living. He was 
a successful writer for magazines, but was little known till the publica- 
tion of ' Vanity Fair,' which stamped him as one of the greatest novel- 
ists that England had produced. He later published 'The Adventures 
of Philip,' ' Pendennis,' ' The Xewcomes,' ' Henry Esmond,' and ' The 
Virginians,' together with minor sketches, essays, and criticisms. A 
man of infinite kindliness, he yet looked upon the world with the keen 
eyes of the satirist, and he lashed the sham and hypocrisy of contem- 
porary society with unsparing hand. From time to time in his life, his 
spirits bubbled over into verse, and though he never took himself seri- 
ously as a poet, the restrained tenderness of the ' Ballad of Bouilla- 
baisse ' and the 'Age of Wisdom,' and the rollicking humor of 'Lyra 
Hibernica ' and ' The Ballads of Policeman X ' would be hard to match. 

PART I 

At Paris, hard by the Maine barriers, 
Whoever will choose to repair, 



THE CHRONICLE OF THE DRUM 151 

'Midst a dozen of wooden-legged warriors 

May haply fall in with old Pierre. 
On the sunshiny bench of a tavern 5 

He sits and he prates of old wars, 
And moistens his pipe of tobacco 

With a drink that is named after Mars. 

The beer makes his tongue run the quicker, 

And as long as his tap never fails, 10 

Thus over his favorite liquor 

Old Peter will tell his old tales. 
Says he, ' In my life's ninety summers 

Strange changes and chances I've seen, — 
So here's to all gentlemen drummers 15 

That ever have thumped on a skin. 

1 Brought up in the art military 

For four generations we are ; 
My ancestors drummed for King Harry, 

The Huguenot lad of Navarre. 20 

And as each man in life has his station 

According as Fortune may fix, 
While Conde° was waving the baton, 

My grandsire was trolling the sticks. 

' Ah ! those were the days for commanders ! 25 
What glories my grandfather won, 

Ere bigots and lackeys and panders 
The fortunes of France had undone ! 



152 THE CHRONICLE OF THE DRUM 

In Germany, Flanders, and Holland, — 

What f oeman resisted us then ? 30 

No ; my grandsire was ever victorious, 
My grandsire and Monsieur Turenne. 

1 He died : and our noble battalions 

The jade, fickle Fortune, forsook; 
And at Blenheim, in spite of our valiance, 35 

The victory lay with Malbrook. 
The news it was brought to King Louis ; 

Corbleu !° how his Majesty swore, 
When he heard they had taken my grandsire : 

And twelve thousand gentlemen more. 40 

'At Namur,° Ramillies, and Malplaquet, 

Were we posted, on plain or in trench : 
Malbrook only need to attack it, 

And away from him scampered we French. 
Cheer up ! 'tis no use to be glum, boys, — 45 

'Tis written since fighting begun, 
That sometimes we fight and we conquer, 

And sometimes we fisrht and we run. 



1 To fight and to run was our fate : 

Our fortune and fame had departed. 50 

And so perished Louis the Great, — 

Old, lonely, and half broken-hearted. 
His coffin they pelted with mud, 

His body they tried to lay hands on ; 



THE CHRONICLE OF THE DRUM 153 

And so having buried King Louis 55 

They loyally served his great-grandson. 

' God save the beloved King Louis ! 

(For so he was nicknamed by some,) 
And now came my father to do his 

King's orders and beat on the drum. 60 

My grandsire was dead, but his bones 

Must have shaken, I'm certain, for joy, 
To hear daddy drumming the English 

From the meadows of famed Fontenoy. 

1 So well did he drum in that battle 65 

That the enemy showed us their backs ; 
Corbleu ! it was pleasant to rattle 

The sticks and to follow old Saxe ! ° 
We next had Soubise as a leader, 

And as luck hath its changes and fits, 70 

At Rossbach, in spite of dad's drumming, 

'Tis said we were beaten by Fritz. 

1 And now daddy crossed the Atlantic, 

To drum for Montcalm and his men ; 
Morbleu ! but it makes a man frantic, 75 

To think we were beaten again ! 
My daddy he crossed the wide ocean, 

My mother brought me on her neck, 
And we came in the year fifty-seven 

To guard the good town of Quebec. 80 



154 THE CHRONICLE OF THE DRUM 

* In the year fifty-nine came the Britons, — 

Full well I remember the day, — 
They knocked at our gates for admittance, 

Their vessels were moored in our bay. 
Says our general, " Drive me yon redcoats 85 

Away to the sea whence they come ! " 
So we marched against Wolfe and his bull-dogs, 

We marched at the sound of the drum. 

' I think I can see my poor mammy 

With me in her hand as she waits, 90 

And our regiment, slowly retreating, 

Pours back through the citadel gates. 
Dear mammy, she looks in their faces, 

And asks if her husband is come ? 
— He is lying all cold on the glacis, 95 

And will never more beat on the drum. 

' Come, drink, 'tis no use to be glum, boys ! 

He died like a soldier in glory ; 
Here's a glass to the health of all drum-boys, 

And now I'll commence my own story. 100 
Once more did we cross the salt ocean, 

We came in the year eighty-one ; 
And the wrongs of my father the drummer 

Were avenged by the drummer his son. 

1 In Chesapeake Bay we were landed. 105 

In vain strove the British to pass ; 



THE CHRONICLE OF THE DRUM 155 

Rochambeau our armies commanded, 
Our ships they were led by De Grasse. 

Morbleu ! how I rattled the drum-sticks 

The day we marched into Yorktown ! no 

Ten thousand of beef-eating British 
Their weapons we caused to lay down. 

1 Then homeward returning victorious, 

In peace to our country we came, 
And were thanked for our glorious actions 115 

By Louis Sixteenth of the name. 
What drummer on earth could be prouder 

Than I, while I drummed at Versailles 
To the lovely court ladies in powder, 

And lappets and long satin tails ? 120 

1 The princes that day passed before us, 

Our countrymen's glory and hope ; 
Monsieur, who was learned in Horace, 

D'Artois, who could dance the tight rope. 
One night we kept guard for the Queen, 125 

At her Majesty's opera-box, 
While the King, that majestical monarch, 

Sat filing at home at his locks. 

' Yes, I drummed for the fair Antoinette, 

And so smiling she looked, and so tender, 130 

That our officers, privates, and drummers, 
All vowed they would die to defend her. 



156 THE CHRONICLE OF THE DRUM 

But she cared not for us honest fellows, 
Who fought and who bled in her wars, 

She sneered at our gallant Rochambeau, 135 
And turned Lafayette out of doors. 

1 Ventrebleu ! then I swore a great oath 

No more to such tyrants to kneel. 
And so, just to keep up my drumming, 

One day I drummed down the Bastile !° 140 
Ho, landlord ! a stoup of fresh wine. 

Come, comrades, a bumper we'll try, 
And drink to the year eighty-nine 

And the glorious fourth of July ! 

1 Then bravely our cannon it thundered 145 

As onwards our patriots bore. 
Our enemies were but a hundred, 

And we twenty thousand or more. 
They carried the news to King Louis. 

He heard it as calm as you please, 150 

And, like a majestical monarch, 

Kept filing his locks and his keys. 

'We showed our republican courage, 

We stormed and we broke the great gate in, 

And we murdered the insolent governor 155 

For daring to keep us a-waiting. 

Lambesc and his squadrons stood by ; 
They never stirred finger or thumb. 



THE CHRONICLE OF THE DRUM 157 

The saucy aristocrats trembled 

As they heard the republican drum. 160 

* Hurrah ! what a storm was a-brewing ! 

The day of our vengeance was come ; 
Through scenes of what carnage and ruin, 

Did I beat on the patriot drum ! 
Let's drink to the famed tenth of August :° 165 

At midnight I beat the tattoo, 
And woke up the pikemen of Paris 

To follow the bold Barbaroux. 

1 With pikes, and with shouts, and with torches 

Marched onwards our dusty battalions, 170 

And we girt the tall castle of Louis, 

A million of tatterdemalions ! 
We stormed the fair gardens where towered 

The walls of his heritage splendid. 
Ah, shame on him, craven and coward, 175 

That had not the heart to defend it ! 

1 With the crown of his sires on his head, 

His nobles and knights by his side, 
At the foot of his ancestors' palace 

'Twere easy, methinks, to have died. 180 

But no : when we burst through his barriers, 

'Mid heaps of the dying and dead, 
In vain through the chambers we sought him — 

He had turned like a craven and fled. 



158 THE CHRONICLE OF THE DRUM 

' You all know the Place de la Concorde ? ° 185 

'Tis hard by the Tuileries wall ; 
'Mid terraces, fountains, and statues, 

There rises an obelisk tall. 
There rises an obelisk tall, 

All garnished and gilded the base is : 190 

'Tis surely the gayest of all 

Our beautiful city's gay places. 

* Around it are gardens and flowers, 

And the Cities of France on their thrones, 
Each crowned with her circlet of flowers 195 

Sits watching this biggest of stones ! 
I love to go sit in the sun there, 

The flowers and fountains to see, 
And to think of the deeds that were done there 

In the glorious year ninety-three. 200 

' 'Twas here stood the Altar of Freedom, 

And though neither marble nor gilding 
Was used in those days to adorn 

Our simple republican building, 
Corbleu ! but the Mere Guillotine 205 

Cared little for splendor or show, 
So you gave her an axe and a beam, 

And a plank and a basket or so. 

' Awful, and proud, and erect, 

Here sat our republican goddess. 210 



THE CHRONICLE OF THE DRUM 159 

Each morning her table we decked 

With dainty aristocrats' bodies. 
The people each day flocked around 

As she sat at her meat and her wine : 
'Twas always the use of our nation 215 

To witness the sovereign dine. 

' Young virgins with fair golden tresses, 

Old silver-haired prelates and priests, 
Dukes, marquises, barons, princesses, 

Were splendidly served at her feasts. 220 

Ventrebleu ! but we pampered our ogress 

With the best that our nation could bring, 
And dainty she grew in her progress, 

And called for the head of a King ! 

1 She called for the blood of our King, 225 

And straight from his prison we drew him ; 
And to her with shouting we led him, 

And took him, and bound him, and slew him. 
" The monarchs of Europe against me 

Have plotted a godless alliance : 230 

I'll fling them the head of King Louis," 

She said, "as my gage of defiance." 

' I see him as now, for a moment, 

Away from his jailers he broke, 
And stood at the foot of the scaffold, 235 

And lingered, and fain would have spoke. 



160 THE CHRONICLE OF THE DRUM 

" Ho, drummer! quick, silence yon Capet," ° 
Says Santerre, "with a beat of your drum." 

Lustily then did I tap it, 

And the son of St. Louis was dumb.' 240 



PART 11 

' The glorious days of September 

Saw many aristocrats fall ; 
'Twas then that our pikes drank the blood 

In the beautiful breast of Lamballe. 
Pardi, 'twas a beautiful lady ! 245 

I seldom have looked on her like ; 
And I drummed for a gallant procession, 

That marched with her head on a pike. 

' Let's show the pale head to the Queen, 

We said — she'll remember it well. 250 

She looked from the bars of her prison, 

And shrieked as she saw it, and fell. 
We set up a shout at her screaming, 

We laughed at the fright she had shown 
At the sight of the head of her minion ; 255 

How she'd tremble to part with her own ! 

1 We had taken the head of King Capet, 
We called for the blood of his wife ; 

Undaunted she came to the scaffold, 

And bared her fair neck to the knife. 260 



THE CHRONICLE OF THE DRUM i6l 

As she felt the foul fingers that touched her, 
She shrunk, but she deigned not to speak : 

She looked with a royal disdain, 

And died with a blush on her cheek ! 

* 'Twas thus that our country was saved ; 265 

So told us the safety committee ! 
But psha ! I've the heart of a soldier, 

All gentleness, mercy, and pity. 
I loathed to assist at such deeds, 

And my drum beat its loudest of tunes 270 

As we offered to justice offended 

The blood of the bloody tribunes. 

1 Away with such foul recollections ! 

No more of the axe and the block ; 
I saw the last fight of the sections, 275 

As they fell 'neath our guns at Saint Rock. 
Young Bonaparte led us that day ; 

When we sought the Italian frontier, 
I followed my gallant young captain, 

I followed him many a long year. 280 

' We came to an army in rags, 

Our general was but a boy 
When we first saw the Austrian flags 

Flaunt proud in the fields of Savoy. 
In the glorious year ninety-six, 285 

We marched to the banks of the Po ; 

M 



1 62 THE CHRONICLE OF THE DRUM 

I carried my drum and my sticks, 
And we laid the proud Austrian low. 

1 In triumph we entered Milan, 

We seized on the Mantuan keys ; 290 

The troops of the Emperor ran, 

And the Pope he fell down on his knees.' — 
Pierre's comrades here called a fresh bottle, 

And clubbing together their wealth, 
They drank to the Army of Italy, 295 

And General Bonaparte's health. 

The drummer now bared his old breast, 

And showed us a plenty of scars, 
Rude presents that Fortune had made him, 

In fifty victorious wars. 300 

1 This came when I followed bold Kleber — 

'Twas shot by a Mameluke gun ; 
And this from an Austrian sabre, 

When the field of Marengo was won. 

* My forehead has many deep furrows, 305 

But this is the deepest of all : 
A Brunswicker made it at Jena, 

Beside the fair river of Saal. 
This cross, 'twas the Emperor gave it ; 

(God bless him !) it covers a blow ; 310 

I had it at Austerlitz fight, 

As I beat on my drum in the snow. 



THE CHRONICLE OF THE DRUM 163 

' 'Twas thus that we conquered and fought ; 

But wherefore continue the story ? 
There's never a baby in France 315 

But has heard of our chief and our glory, — 
But has heard of our chief and our fame, 

His sorrows and triumphs can tell, 
How bravely Napoleon conquered, 

How bravely and sadly he fell. 320 

' It makes my old heart to beat higher, 

To think of the deeds that I saw ; 
I followed bold Ney through the fire, 

And charged at the side of Murat.' 
And so did old Peter continue 325 

His story of twenty brave years ; 
His audience followed with comments — 

Rude comments of curses and tears. 

He told how the Prussians in vain 

Had died in defence of their land ; 330 

His audience laughed at the story, 

And vowed that their captain was grand ! 
He had fought the red English, he said, 

In many a battle of Spain ; 
They cursed the red English, and prayed 335 

To meet them and fight them again. 

He told them how Russia was lost, 
Had winter not driven them back ; 



1 64 THE CHRONICLE OF THE DRUM 

And his company cursed the quick frost, 

And doubly they cursed the Cossack. 340 

He told how the stranger arrived ; 
They wept at the tale of disgrace ; 

And they longed for one battle more, 
The stain of their shame to efface ! 

1 Our country their hordes overrun, 345 

We fled to the fields of Champagne, 
And fought them, though twenty to one, 

And beat them again and again ! 
Our warrior was conquered at last; 

They bade him his crown to resign ; 350 

To fate and his country he yielded 

The rights of himself and his line. 

1 He came, and among us he stood, 

Around him we pressed in a throng, 
We could not regard him for weeping, 355 

Who had led us and loved us so long. 
" I have led you for twenty long years," 

Napoleon said, ere he went ; 
" Wherever was honor I found you, 

And with you, my sons, am content. 360 

' " Though Europe against me was armed, 
Your chiefs and my people are true ; 

I still might have struggled with fortune, 
And baffled all Europe with you. 



THE CHRONICLE OF THE DRUM 165 

' " But France would have suffered the while ; 365 

'Tis best that I suffer alone ; 
I go to my place of exile, 

To write of the deeds we have done. 

' " Be true to the king that they give you. 

We may not embrace ere we part ; 370 

But, General, reach me your hand, 

And press me, I pray, to your heart." 

1 He called for our old battle standard ; 

One kiss to the eagle he gave. 
" Dear eagle ! " he said, " may this kiss 375 

Long sound in the hearts of the brave ! " 

I 'Twas thus that Napoleon left us ; 

Our people were weeping and mute, 
As he passed through the lines of his guard, 

And our drums beat the notes of salute. 380 

I I looked when our drumming was o'er, 
I looked, but our hero was gone ; 

We were destined to see him once more, 
When we fought on the Mount of St. John. 

The Emperor rode through our files ; 385 

'Twas June, and a fair Sunday morn. 

The lines of our warriors for miles 

Stretched wide through the Waterloo corn. 

' In thousands we stood on the plain, 

The redcoats were crowning the height ; 390 



1 66 THE CHRONICLE OF THE DRUM 

" Go scatter yon English," he said; 

"We'll sup, lads, at Brussels to-night." 
We answered his voice with a shout ; 

Our eagles were bright in the sun ; 
Our drums and our cannons spoke out, 395 

And the thundering battle begun. 

' One charge to another succeeds, 

Like waves that a hurricane bears ; 
All day do our galloping steeds 

Dash fierce on the enemy's squares. 400 

At noon we began the fell onset : 

We charged up the Englishman's hill ; 
And madly we charged it at sunset — 

His banners were floating there still. 

1 — Go to ! I will tell you no more ; 405 

You know how the battle was lost. 
Ho ! fetch me a beaker of wine, 

And, comrades, I'll give you a toast. 
I'll give you a curse on all traitors, 

Who plotted our Emperor's ruin ; 410 

And a curse on those red-coated English, 

Whose bayonets helped our undoing. 

1 A curse on those British assassins 
Who ordered the slaughter of Ney ;° 

A curse on Sir Hudson, who tortured 415 

The life of our hero away. 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE 167 

A curse on all Russians — I hate them — 

On all Prussian and Austrian fry ; 
And oh ! but I pray we may meet them, 

And fight them again ere I die.' 420 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE 

Oliver Goldsmith 

Oliver Goldsmith (1 728-1 774) was born at Pallas, County Long- 
ford, Ireland. He was the son of a poor village pastor who, however, 
in some way found means to send him to Trinity College, Dublin. He 
was too indolent and fond of pleasure to shine as a scholar. After 
leaving college he pretended to study medicine first at Edinburgh and 
then at Leyden, but it pleased him best to wander idly over Europe 
playing ' merry tunes ' on his flute for food and lodging. He finally 
made his way to London and after failing in one thing after another, he 
came to depend for a livelihood entirely upon literature. Throughout 
his life he was an impractical and self-indulgent man, but his observing 
and sympathetic nature, coupled with an easy and charming style, have 
made for him an enduring name in English literature. In spite of 
his weaknesses his real worth won for him the friendship of the fore- 
most men of his day, chief among whom were Garrick, Johnson, Burke, 
and Reynolds. His best-known works are the two poems, ' The Trav- 
eller ' and ' The Deserted Village,' the two comedies, ' The Good-na- 
tured Man ' and ' She Stoops to Conquer,' and the charming ' Vicar of 
Wakefield ' which Carlyle called ' the best of all modern idylls.' 

Sweet Auburn ! ° loveliest village of the plain, 
Where health and plenty cheered the laboring swain, 
Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid, 
And parting summer's lingering blooms delayed. — 
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, 5 

Seats of my youth, when every sport could please — 



168 THE DESERTED VILLAGE 

How often have I loitered o'er thy green, 

Where humble happiness endeared each scene; 

How often have I paused on every charm — 

The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm, 10 

The never-failing brook, the busy mill, 

The decent church that topped the neighboring hill, 

The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade, 

For talking age and whispering lovers made ! 

How often have I blest the coming day, 15 

When toil remitting lent its turn to play, 

And all the village train, from labor free, 

Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree — 

While many a pastime circled in the shade, 

The young contending as the old surveyed ; 20 

And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground, 

And sleights of art and feats of strength went 

round : 
And still, as each repeated pleasure tired, 
Succeeded sports the mirthful band inspired — 
The dancing pair that simply sought renown 25 

By holding out, to tire each other down ; 
The swain mistrustless of his smutted face, 
While secret laughter tittered round the place ; 
The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love, 
The matron's glance that would those looks re- 
prove : — 30 
These were thy charms, sweet village ! sports like 

these, 
With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please ; 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE 169 

These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed, 
These were thy charms — but all these charms are 
fled. 

Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn, 35 

Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn ; 
Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen, 
And desolation saddens all thy green : 
One only master grasps the whole domain, 
And half a village stints thy smiling plain. 40 

No more thy glassy brook reflects the day, 
But choked with sedges works its weedy way ; 
Along thy glades, a solitary guest, 
The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest ; 
Amidst thy desert-walks the lapwing flies, 45 

And tires their echoes with unvaried cries. 
Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all, 
And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering wall ; 
And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand, 
Far, far away thy children leave the land. 50 

111 fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, 
Where wealth accumulates, and men decay : 
Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade — 
A breath can make them, as a breath has made ; 
But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, 55 

When once destroyed, can never be supplied. 

A time there was, ere England's griefs began, 
When every rood of ground maintained its man : 



170 THE DESERTED VILLAGE 

For him light labor spread her wholesome store, 
Just gave what life required, but gave no more ; 60 
His best companions, innocence and health ; 
And his best riches, ignorance of wealth. 

But times are altered ; trade's unfeeling train 
Usurp the land, and dispossess the swain : 
Along the lawn, where scattered hamlets rose, 65 

Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose, 
And every want to luxury allied, 
And every pang that folly pays to pride, 
Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom, 
Those calm desires that asked but little room, 70 

Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful scene, 
Lived in each look, and brightened all the green, — 
These, far departing, seek a kinder shore, 
And rural mirth and manners are no more. 

Sweet Auburn ! parent of the blissful hour, 75 

Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power. 
Here, as I take my solitary rounds, 
Amidst thy tangling walks and ruined grounds, 
And, many a year elapsed, return to view 
Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew — 
Remembrance wakes, with all her busy train, 81 

Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain. 

In all my wanderings round this world of care, 
In all my griefs — and God has given my share — 
I still had hopes my latest hours to crown, 85 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE 1J\ 

Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down ; 

To husband out life's taper at the close, 

And keep the flame from wasting, by repose ; 

I still had hopes — for pride attends us still — 

Amidst the swains to show my book-learned skill, 90 

Around my fire an evening group to draw, 

And tell of all I felt, and all I saw ; 

And, as a hare, whom hounds and horns pursue, 

Pants to the place from whence at first she flew, 

I still had hopes, my long vexations passed, 95 

Here to return — and die at home at last. 

Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's close, 
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose ; 
There, as I passed with careless steps and slow, 
The mingling notes came softened from below ; 100 
The swain responsive as the milkmaid sung, 
The sober herd that lowed to meet their young, 
The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool, 
The playful children just let loose from school, 
The watch-dog's voice that bayed the whispering 
wind, 105 

And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind — 
These all in sweet confusion sought the shade, 
And filled each pause the nightingale had made. 
But now the sounds of population fail, 
No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale, no 

No busy steps the grass-grown footway tread, 
For all the blooming flush of life is fled — 



172 THE DESERTED VILLAGE 

All but yon widowed, solitary thing, 

That feebly bends beside the plashy spring ; 

She, wretched matron — forced in age, for bread, 115 

To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread, 

To pick her wintry fagot from the thorn, 

To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn — 

She only left of all the harmless train, 

The sad historian of the pensive plain ! 120 

Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, 
And still where many a garden-flower grows wild ; 
There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, 
The village preacher's modest mansion rose. 
A man he was to all the country dear, 125 

And passing rich with forty pounds a year. 
Remote from towns he ran his godly race, 
Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change, his place; 
Unpractised he to fawn, or seek for power 
By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour, 130 

Far other aims his heart had learned to prize — 
More skilled to raise the wretched than to rise. 
His house was known to all the vagrant train ; 
He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain ; 
The long-remembered beggar was his guest, 135 

Whose beard descending swept his aged breast ; 
The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud, 
Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed ; 
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, 
Sat by his fire, and talked the night away ; 140 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE 173 

Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done, 
Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were 

won. 
Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow, 
And quite forgot their vices in their woe ; 
Careless their merits or their faults to scan ; 145 

His pity gave ere charity began. 

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, 
And even his failings leaned to virtue's side ; 
But, in his duty prompt at every call, 
He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all ; 150 
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries, 
To tempt her new-fledged offspring to the skies, 
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, 
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. 

Beside the bed where parting life was laid, 155 

And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismayed, 
The reverend champion stood. At his control 
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul ; 
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, 
And his last faltering accents whispered praise. 160 

At church, with meek and unaffected grace, 
His looks adorned the venerable place ; 
Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway ; 
And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray. 
The service past, around the pious man, 165 

With ready zeal, each honest rustic ran ; 
Even children followed with endearing wile, 
And plucked his gown, to share the good man's smile ; 



174 THE DESERTED VILLAGE 

His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed, 

Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed ; 

To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given, 171 

But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven. 

As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form, 

Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm ; 

Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, 

Eternal sunshine settles on its head. 176 

Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way, 

With blossomed furze unprofitably gay, 

There in his noisy mansion skilled to rule, 

The village master taught his little school ; 180 

A man severe he was, and stern to view, 

I knew him well, and every truant knew ; 

Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace 

The day's disasters in his morning face ; 

Full well they laughed with counterfeited glee 185 

At all his jokes, for many a joke had he ; 

Full well the busy whisper, circling round, 

Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned — 

Yet he was kind, or if severe in aught, 

The love he bore to learning was in fault. 190 

The village all declared how much he knew ; 

'Twas certain he could write, and cipher too ; 

Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage — 

And e'en the story ran that he could gauge ; 

In arguing too, the parson owned his skill, 195 

For e'en though vanquished, he could argue still, 

While words of learned length and thundering sound 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE 175 

Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around — 
And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew 
That one small head could carry all he knew. 200 

But passed is all his fame : the very spot, 
Where many a time he triumphed, is forgot. 

Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high, 
Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye, 
Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts in- 
spired, 205 
Where gray-beard mirth and smiling toil retired, 
Where village statesmen talked with looks profound, 
And news much older than their ale went round. 
Imagination fondly stoops to trace 
The parlor splendor of that festive place ; 210 
The whitewashed wall, the nicely sanded floor, 
The varnished clock that ticked behind the door — 
The chest contrived a double debt to pay, 
A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day — 
The pictures placed for ornament and use, 215 
The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose — 
The hearth, except when winter chilled the day, 
With aspen boughs and flowers and fennel gay — 
While broken teacups, wisely kept for show, 
Ranged o'er the chimney, glistened in a row. 220 

Vain transitory splendors ! could not all 
Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall ? 
Obscure, it sinks ; nor shall it more impart 
An hour's importance to the poor man's heart. 



NOTES 

Warren's Address 

Page io. Among those killed at the battle of Bunker Hill 
was General Joseph Warren, a Boston physician, and a leading 
man among the Whigs of Massachusetts. 

John Gilpin 

Page 13, Line 3. Train-band: militia. 

P. 14, 1. 11. Bell at Edmonton: an inn at Edmonton, a little 
place just north of London. 
P. 14, 1. 23. Calender: cloth dresser. 
P. 21, 1. 178. Pin: humor. 

Alexander Selkirk 

P. 24. Alexander Selkirk, a Scottish sailor, was shipwrecked 
on the island of Juan Fernandez, and lived there alone for four 
years. It is not unlikely that Defoe had Selkirk's adventures in 
mind when he wrote ' Robinson Crusoe. 1 

* Royal George 1 

P. 26. The ' Royal George,' a frigate of 108 guns, was overset 
while undergoing repairs in Portsmouth Harbor, August, 1782, 
and nearly a thousand lives were lost. ' For tenderness and 
grandeur under the form of severe simplicity, these lines have 
few rivals. 1 — Palgrave. 

Sir John Moore 

P. 28. During the Napoleonic wars in Spain, Sir John Moore, 
a brave and capable English general, was killed in battle at Co- 
runna while conducting a retreat of the English forces. 

N 177 



178 NOTES 

Young Lochinvar 

P. 32, 1. 32. Galliard : a gay and lively dance. 
P. 32, 1. 41. Scaur: broken cliff-side. 

Bells of Shandon 

P. 36,1. 19. 'Adrian's Mole': thetombof the Emperor Adrian 
in Rome, now called the castle of St. Angelo. 

P. 36, 1. 20. Vatican: one of the hills of Rome, on which is 
situated the church of St. Peter and the palace of the Vatican. 

P. 36, 1. 22. Notre Dame : a cathedral in Paris. 

P. 36, 1. 23. Peter : church of St. Peter at Rome. 

P. 37, 1. 28. A bell in Moscow : probably refers to the beau- 
tiful chimes in the Kremlin. 

P. 37, 1. 29. Saint Sophia: a famous Mohammedan mosque 
in Constantinople, originally built as a Christian temple. 

Elegy written in a Country Churchyard 

P. 40, 1. 57. John Hampden : a Buckinghamshire squire, who 
resisted the attempt of Charles I. to collect a tax called ship 
money without a grant of Parliament. 

P. 40, 1. 60. Cromwell : a famous English general and states- 
man, who, as commander of the Parliamentary army, defeated the 
forces of Charles I. Charles was executed, and Cromwell became 
the head of the Commonwealth, an almost republican form of 
government, which lasted till the restoration of Charles II. in 
1660. 

After Blenheim 

P. 44. The battle of Blenheim (Bavaria) was fought in 1704 
between Louis XIV. of France and the allied English and Aus- 
trian forces under the Duke of Marlborough and Prince Eugene 
of Austria. It resulted in a decisive victory for the allies. 

Ye Mariners of England 

P. 49, 1. 15. Blake : a famous English admiral, especially cele- 
brated for his victories over the Dutch about the middle of the 
seventeenth century. 



NOTES 179 

P. 49, 1. 15. Nelson: the most famous of all naval command- 
ers. His greatest victories were won over the French fleet of 
Napoleon at the battle of the Nile and at Trafalgar, off the coast 
of Spain. He was killed at Trafalgar, living, however, long 
enough to know that he had won a great victory. 

Battle of the Baltic 

P. 50. In 1801 the English admiral, Nelson, bombarded Co- 
penhagen and destroyed a large part of the Danish fleet. 
P. 53, 1. 67. Riou : an English captain killed in the battle. 

HOHENLINDEN 

P. 53. The French army under Napoleon defeated the Aus- 
trians at Hohenlinden, Bavaria, in 1800. 

The Red Thread of Honor 

The incident set forth in this poem was related to the author 
by Sir Charles Napier. It probably occurred during the conquest 
of Scinde in 1843, when the whole of this province of Scinde, 
northwestern India, became a British possession. Its inhabitants 
are mostly Mohammedans. 

P. 56, 1. 13. Eblis: an evil spirit. 

P. 56,1. 17. Ghiznee tiger: probably refers to Mahmoud, a 
Turk who founded the town of Ghazni. 

P. 57,1. 19. Holy Prophet : Mohammed. 

P. 57,1. 21. Secunder: probably Alexander the Great, who 
conquered northern India in 356 B.C. 

P. 58,1. 61. Franks: a name given by Eastern peoples to 
Europeans in general. 

P- 59? 1- 73- Rustum: a Persian legendary hero. 

Sheridan's Ride 

P. 61. In October, 1864, the Confederate forces under Gen- 
eral Early surprised and defeated the Union army at Cedar Creek, 
about twenty miles southwest of Winchester. Sheridan was away 



180 NOTES 

at Winchester, and the poem tells how, hearing the firing, he rode 
back in time to rally his men and gain a brilliant victory. 

The Ballad of Agincourt 

P. 63. The battle of Agincourt was fought in France in 1415. 
The English forces under Henry V., numbering scarcely more than 
10,000 men, won a great victory over a French army of nearly 
50,000. The form of this poem is said to have been invented by 
Drayton. Compare it with that of Longfellow's ' Skeleton in 
Armor/ and Tennyson's l Charge of the Light Brigade. 1 

P. 65, 1. 41. Poitiers and Cressy : scenes of other English vic- 
tories. 

P. 66, 1. 76. Weather: withers, the shoulders of a horse. 

P. 6y, 1. 82. Bilbows : a kind of sword, so called from thb 
Spanish town of Bilboa, famous for its cutlery. 

P. 68, 1. 113. Saint Crispin's Day: October 25. 

The Raven 

P. 72, 1. 47. Pluto was the god of Hades or the lower world. 

P. 74, 1. 82. Nepenthe : a drink for banishing pain and sorrow 

P. 75, 1. 89. Balm in Gilead: cf. Jeremiah viii. 22. 

P. 75, 1. 93. Aidenn: probably a fanciful spelling of Eden. 

The Charge of the Light Brigade 

P. 86. During the Crimean War a battle was fought near Bal- 
aclava, a little port on the Black Sea. 'A Russian army pushed 
forward to cut off communication between this port and the Brit- 
ish force before Sebastopol. Lord Cardigan, who commanded 
the brigade of light cavalry, received an order, vaguely worded, 
to retake some guns captured by the Russians. The order was 
misunderstood, and the Light Brigade, knowing that it was riding 
to its destruction, but refusing to set an example of disobedience, 
charged, not in the direction of the guns, which they were unable 
to see, but into the very centre of the Russian army. The ranks 
of the English cavalry were mown down, and but few escaped 
alive.' — Gardiner. 



NOTES l8l 

The * Revenge ' 

P. 88. Sir Walter Raleigh, cousin of Sir Richard Grenville, 
has left us an account of the fight described in this poem. A 
small English fleet, with Lord Howard in command, while en- 
deavoring to capture some Spanish treasure ships, was caught at 
the Azores (1591) by a large Spanish fleet of fifty-three vessels. 
Five of the English fleet made their escape, but Grenville, who 
waited to bring the sick from shore, was unable to get away. 
Throughout the afternoon and all through the night the little 
vessel carried on the unequal conflict. The incidents of the fight 
are set forth with historical fidelity in Tennyson's noble lines. 

P. 90, 1. 31. Don : a Spanish title equivalent to Mr., but here 
used as a name for a Spaniard in the same way that Monsieur is 
used for a Frenchman. 

HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS 

P. 96. Of this poem Browning wrote in answer to an inquiry, 
' There is no sort of historical foundation for the poem about 
Good News from Ghent. 1 

Herve Riel 

P. 99. In 1692 the combined English and Dutch fleets won 
a decisive victory at La Hogue, a cape on the peninsula of La 
Manche, on the English Channel. The story as told by Brown- 
ing is true, except that the holiday given the hero was for life. 

P. 102, 1. 43. Croisickese : Herve Riel lived at St. Croisic, just 
opposite from St. Malo. 

P. 102, 1. 45. Malouins: inhabitants of St. Malo. 

P. 106, 1. 134. Louvre : a famous palace in Paris, now used as 
a museum, picture-gallery, etc. 

The Pied Piper of Hamelin 

P. 106. This poem was written to amuse the young son of 
William Macready, the actor. It is to this son, Willie, that the 
last lines of the poem are addressed. The incidents related in 



I 82 NOTES 

the poem are based upon an old legend that was widespread 
during the Middle Ages. Cf. Fiske's 'Myths and Myth Makers. 1 

P. 109, 1. 74. Cham : the title of the sovereign prince of Tar- 
tan - , usually written Khan. 

P. 109, 1. 76. Nizam : title of native sovereigns of Hyderabad, 
India. 

The Battle of Naseby 

P. 117. The battle of Naseby, one of the decisive battles of 
the great civil war between the Parliamentary forces under Crom- 
well and the army of King Charles I., was fought near the village 
of Naseby, in Northamptonshire, in 1645. 

P. n8,l. 11. Man of Blood: Charles I. 

P. 118, 1. 22. Alsatia: a quarter of London inhabited largely 
by fugitive debtors and criminals. 

P. 118. 1. 22. Whitehall : a royal palace in London. 

P. 120, 1. 38. Temple Bar : an old city gate, no longer stand- 
ing. 

Horaties 

P. 120. This story- is one of the familiar tales in the legendary 
history of Rome. Most of the proper names are names, either 
of places in ancient Italy and Etruria, or of legendary or semi- 
historical personages. 

P. 121,]. 36. Massilia : Marseilles. 

P. 123. 1. 71. Verses: probably like the Sibylline verses of 
Rome, which were thought to foretell the fortunes of the city, 
and which were consulted on all important occasions. 

P. 125. 1. 118. Fathers of the City : a name given to the sen- 
ators. 

P. 129. 1. 234. The three original patrician tribes of Rome 
were the Ramnes. Tities, and Luceres. These three tribes are 
represented in the three heroes of the day. 

P. 129, 1. 238. Cf. 1. 234. 

P. 130,1.259. Tribunes: officers appointed to defend the 
rights of the plebeians, or poorer classes, while the Fathers, or 
Senate, represented the patricians. 



NOTES 183 

P- J 33> 1- 35 2 - She-wolf: an allusion to the legend that 
Romulus and Remus, the founders of Rome, were suckled by a 
she-wolf. 

P. 138, 1. 480. Palatinus: one of the seven hills upon which 
Rome is founded. 

The Destruction of Sennacherib 
P. 143. See 2 Kings xviii. 13. 

The Battle of Waterloo 

P. 145. The battle of Waterloo, in which Napoleon was de- 
feated by the allied forces of English, Dutch, and Prussians, 
under the Duke of Wellington, was fought (181 5) near the 
village of Waterloo, eight miles from Brussels. This was the 
last battle fought by Napoleon. He was soon after exiled by 
the English to the island of St. Helena, where he died. 

P. 145, 1. 20. Brunswick's fated chieftain : Frederick William, 
Duke of Brunswick, who was killed in one of the preliminary 
skirmishes of the great battle. 

P. 146, 1. 46. 'Cameron's gathering': the slogan or rallying- 
cry of the Camerons, a Scottish clan. 

P. 146, 1. 47. Lochiel: a name given to Donald, one of the 
most famous of the Camerons ; cf. i Lochiel's Warning,' by 
Campbell. 

P. 146, 1. 47. Albyn: Gaelic name for Scotland. 

The Chronicle of the Drum 

P. 150. In the 'Chronicle of the Drum' Thackeray has given 
us in verse a condensed history of France from the time of 
Henry IV. to the overthrow of Napoleon at Waterloo. 

P. 150, 1. 1. Maine barriers: a quarter of the city near the 
fortifications. 

P. 151,1. 19. King Harry: the Huguenot lad of Navarre, Henry 
of Navarre, so called from the former kingdom of Navarre, now 
a part of France, was a leader among the Huguenots, or French 



1 84 NOTES 

Protestants. His succession to the throne of France was op- 
posed by the Catholics, and a bitter war followed. Henry and 
the Huguenots won a great victory at Ivry, and soon after the 
king embraced Catholicism. By this action he won over to him 
many Catholics, still retaining, by wise toleration, the esteem of 
the Huguenots. He ruled France wisely, but met an untimely 
death at the hands of a Catholic fanatic. 

P. 151, 1. 23. Conde : Conde and Turenne (1. 32) were famous 
French commanders of the seventeenth century. 

P. 152, 1. 35. Blenheim: cf. note. 

P. 152, 1. 36. Malbrook : a French name for Marlborough. 

P. 152, 1. 38. Corbleu: corbleu, morbleu, ventrebleu, and pardi 
are mild French oaths. 

P. 152, 1. 41. Namur, Ramillies, Malplaquet : scenes of other 
defeats of the French at the hands of Marlborough. Thackeray, 
by his rhymes, evidently intends that many of the French words 
shall be pronounced as if English. 

P. 153, 1. 64. Fontenoy : a village in Belgium where the French 
under Marshal Saxe defeated an allied force of English, Dutch, 
and Austrians, 1745. 

P. 153, 1. 68. Saxe : a famous French marshal, see note above. 

P. 153, 1. 69. Soubise : a French general. He was defeated 
at Rossbach (1757) by Frederick II. of Germany. 

P. 154, 1. 95. Glacis : a gently sloping bank. 

P. 155,1. 118. Versailles: a small city about twenty miles 
from Paris, formerly the seat of the French court. 

P. 155, 1. 123. Monsieur: here used as the title of the eldest 
brother of the king. 

P. 155, 1. 124. D'Artois: younger brother of Louis XVI., and 
afterward king of France, with title of Charles X. 

P. 155, 1. 128. Louis XVI. was an amateur locksmith, and it 
was charged against him that he would rather work among his 
locks than govern France. 

P. 155,1. 129. Antoinette: Marie Antoinette, wife of Louis 
XVI. and queen of France. 

P. 156, 1. 135. Rochambeau and Lafayette were French noble- 
men who fought for the colonies in the American Revolution. 



NOTES 185 

They were prominent in the affairs of France on their return 
home. 

P. 156, 1. 140. Bastile: a famous French fortress and prison, 
overthrown by the populace July 14, 1789, at the beginning of 
the French Revolution. The fall of the Bastile has come to have 
for the French a significance somewhat similar to that of the 
Declaration of Independence for the Americans. 

P. 156,1. 157. Lambesc: Prince de Lambesc, a commander 
in the king's forces. 

P. 157, 1. 165. Tenth of August: August 10, 1792, the Tui- 
leries, the palace of the king, was sacked by an armed mob of 
30,000 men. The king escaped, only to be led to the scaffold a 
short time later. 

P. 158, 1. 185. Place de la Concorde : a famous square in Paris, 
where was erected the guillotine, the instrument used for decapi- 
tating the victims of the Revolution. Between January 21, 1793, 
and May 3, 1795, more than 2800 were put to death on this 
spot. 

P. 160,1.237. Capet: Louis XVI. Hugues Capet, founded 
in 987, the third dynasty of France, to which Louis XVI. be- 
longed. 

P. 160, 1. 238. Santerre : a commander of the National Guard, 
who, however, favored the communists. 

P. 160, 1. 244. Lamballe : Princess de Lamballe, an intimate 
friend of the queen. She was cruelly murdered by a mob, and 
her head was shown to the queen as the poem relates. 

P. 162, 1. 301 . Kleber : Kleber, Ney, and Murat were marshals 
under Napoleon. 

P. 162, 1. 302. Mameluke : Egyptian cavalry, famous for the 
wild bravery of their charges. 

P. 165, 1. 384. Mount of St. John: a part of the battlefield 
of Waterloo. 

P. 166, 1. 414. Ney : one of Napoleon's marshals, ordered to 
be shot by the English after the battle of Waterloo. He was 
called ' the bravest of the brave.' 

P. 166, 1. 415. Sir Hudson: Sir Hudson Lowe, governor of 
St. Helena during Napoleon's captivity. 



1 86 NOTES 

The Deserted Village 

P. 167, 1. 1. Sweet Auburn: under this name Goldsmith has 
probably idealized the little Irish villages where his boyhood and 
youth were spent. 

P. 171, 1. 99. Careless : free from care. 

P. 172, 1. 124. In drawing the portrait of the village preacher 
Goldsmith has probably both his father and his brother Henry in 
mind. 

P. 175, 1. 216. Twelve good rules: moral rules, such as 'En- 
courage no Vice. 1 They will be found in Hale's c Longer Eng- 
lish Poems.' 



NOTES 185 

They were prominent in the affairs of France on their return 
home. 

P. 156, 1. 140. Bastile: a famous French fortress and prison, 
overthrown by the populace July 14, 1789, at the beginning of 
the French Revolution. The fall of the Bastile has come to have 
for the French a significance somewhat similar to that of the 
Declaration of Independence for the Americans. 

P. 156,1. 157. Lambesc: Prince de Lambesc, a commander 
in the king's forces. 

P. 157,1. 165. Tenth of August: August 10, 1792, the Tui- 
leries, the palace of the king, was sacked by an armed mob of 
30,000 men. The king escaped, only to be led to the scaffold a 
short time later. 

P. 158, 1. 185. Place de la Concorde : a famous square in Paris, 
where was erected the guillotine, the instrument used for decapi- 
tating the victims of the Revolution. Between January 21, 1793, 
and May 3, 1795, more than 2800 were put to death on this 
spot. 

P. i6o,l. 237. Capet: Louis XVI. Hugues Capet, founded 
in 987, the third dynasty of France, to which Louis XVI. be- 
longed. 

P. 160, 1. 238. Santerre : a commander of the National Guard, 
who, however, favored the communists. 

P. 160, 1. 244. Lamballe: Princess de Lamballe, an intimate 
friend of the queen. She was cruelly murdered by a mob, and 
her head was shown to the queen as the poem relates. 

P. 162, 1. 301. Kleber : Kleber, Ney, and Murat were marshals 
under Napoleon. 

P. 162, 1. 302. Mameluke : Egyptian cavalry, famous for the 
wild bravery of their charges. 

P. 165, 1. 384. Mount of St. John: a part of the battlefield 
of Waterloo. 

P. 166, 1. 414. Ney : one of Napoleon's marshals, ordered to 
be shot by the English after the battle of Waterloo. He was 
called ' the bravest of the brave.' 

P. 166, 1. 415. Sir Hudson: Sir Hudson Lowe, governor of 
St. Helena during Napoleon's captivity. 



1 86 NOTES 

The Deserted Village 

P. 167, 1. 1. Sweet Auburn: under this name Goldsmith has 
probably idealized the little Irish villages where his boyhood and 
youth were spent. 

P. 171, 1. 99. Careless: free from care. 

P. 172, 1. 124. In drawing the portrait of the village preacher 
Goldsmith has probably both his father and his brother Henry in 
mind. 

P. 175, 1. 216. Twelve good rules: moral rules, such as ' En- 
courage no Vice.' They will be found in Hale's ' Longer Eng- 
lish Poems.' 



MACMILLAN'S SCHOOL LIBRARY 



OF 



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SUITABLE FOR SUPPLEMENTARY READING. 



16mo. Cloth. Each, 50 cents. 



Albert H. Smyth, Central High School, Philadelphia. 

" I have often had occasion to commend Church's books and others 
of your School Library to my students. . . . You are making for us 
in your School Library the reading-books we have all been desiring so 
long." 

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" Delightful books for boys and girls. They are so much superior 
to many of the frivolous books issued under the title of ' Children's 
Literature.' " 

Prin. James E. Russell in The School Review. 

" The Macmillan Company has put the reading public in general, 
and school children in particular, under lasting obligations by reprint- 
ing some of its standard works in cheaper form under the title 
Macmillan- 's School Library. . . . Every school library should have 
these volumes to make it complete." 



The publishers expect to include in this School Library only 
such of their books for the young as have already by their popu- 
larity and recognized excellence acquired the right to rank as 
standard reading-books. 



THE MACMILLAN COMPANY, PUBLISHERS, 

66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK. 



MACMILLAN'S SCHOOL LIBRARY 

OF 

BOOKS 

SUITABLE FOR SUPPLEMENTARY READING. 

16 mo. Cloth. Each, 50 cents. 



A BOOK OP GOLDEN DEEDS . . . Charlotte M. Yonge. 
MADAM HOW AND LADY WHY . . Rev. Charles Kingsley. 
STORIES FROM WAVERLEY . H. Gassiot (Mrs. Alfred Burton). 

WESTWARD HO ! Rev. Charles Kingsley. 

HEREWARD THE WAKE .... Rev. Charles Kingsley. 
STORIES FROM THE HISTORY OF ROME Mrs. Busby. 
STORIES FROM VIRGIL .... Rev. Alfred J. Church. 
ROMAN LIFE IN THE DAYS OF CICERO Rev. Alfred J. Church. 
TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE . . . Charles and Mary Lamb. 
THE WATER BABIES . . . . . Rev. Charles Kingsley. 

TOWN GEOLOGY Rev. Charles Kingsley. 

LITTLE LUCY'S WONDERFUL GLOBE . Charlotte M. Yonge. 
THE STORY OF THE ILIAD . . . Rev. Alfred J. Church. 
THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF SONGS AND LYRICS, 

Selected and arranged by Francis Turner Palgrave. 

BIOGRAPHIES Lord Macaulay. 

THE CHILDREN'S TREASURY OF ENGLISH SONG, 

Selected and arranged by Francis Turner Palgrave. 
TALES FROM SPENSER .... Sophia H. Maclehose. 
STORY OF THE ODYSSEY .... Rev. Alfred J. Church. 
THE HEROES OF ASGARD .... A. and E. Keary. 

OTHER VOLUMES TO FOLLOW. 



THE MACMILLAN COMPANY, PUBLISHERS, 

- 66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK. 
2 



MACMILLAN'S SCHOOL LIBRARY 

OF 

BOOKS 

SUITABLE FOR SUPPLEMENTARY READING. 

16mo. Cloth. Each, 50 cents. 



Albert H. Smyth, Central High School, Philadelphia. 

" I have often had occasion to commend Church's books and others 
of your School Library to my students. . . . You are making for us 
in your School Library the reading-books we have all been desiring so 
long." 

Supt. J. M. Greenwood, Kansas City, Mo. 

" Delightful books for boys and girls. They are so much superior 
to many of the frivolous books issued under the title of ' Children's 
Literature.' " 

Prin. James E. Russell in The School Review. 

" The Macmillan Company has put the reading public in general, 
and school children in particular, under lasting obligations by reprint- 
ing some of its standard works in cheaper form under the title 
Macmillan 's School Library. . . . Every school library should have 
these volumes to make it complete." 



The publishers expect to include in this School Library only 
such of their books for the young as have already by their popu- 
larity and recognized excellence acquired the right to rank as 
standard reading-books. 



THE MACMILLAN COMPANY, PUBLISHERS, 

66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK. 



MACMILLAN'S SCHOOL LIBRARY 

OF 

BOOKS 

SUITABLE FOR SUPPLEMENTARY READING. 

16mo. Cloth. Each, SO cents. 



A BOOK OF GOLDEN DEEDS . . . Charlotte M. Yonge. 
MADAM HOW AND LADY WHY . . Rev. Charles Kingsley. 
STORIES FROM WAVERLEY . H. Gassiot (Mrs. Alfred Burton). 

WESTWARD HO ! Rev. Charles Kingsley. 

HEREWARD THE WAKE .... Rev. Charles Kingsley. 
STORIES FROM THE HISTORY OF ROME Mrs. Busby. 
STORIES FROM VIRGIL .... Rev. Alfred J. Church. 
ROMAN LIFE IN THE DAYS OF CICERO Rev. Alfred J. Church. 
TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE . . . Charles and Mary Lamb. 

THE WATER BABIES Rev. Charles Kingsley. 

TOWN GEOLOGY Rev. Charles Kingsley. 

LITTLE LUCY'S WONDERFUL GLOBE . Charlotte M. Yonge. 
THE STORY OF THE ILIAD . . . Rev. Alfred J. Church. 
THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF SONGS AND LYRICS, 

Selected and arranged by Francis Turner Palgrave. 

BIOGRAPHIES Lord Macaulay. 

THE CHILDREN'S TREASURY OF ENGLISH SONG, 

Selected and arranged by Francis Turner Palgrave. 
TALES FROM SPENSER .... Sophia H. Maclehose. 
STORY OF THE ODYSSEY .... Rev. Alfred J. Church. 
THE HEROES OF ASGARD .... A. and E. Keary. 

OTHER VOLUMES TO FOLLOW. 



THE MACMILLAN COMPANY, PUBLISHERS, 

66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK. 
2 



12 1899 



